Dance of the Thousand Cranes
by KelseyV
Summary: Violetta Piper is a ballet prodigy. Who lost everything on a car accident, two years ago. She retains her ability to walk, but never could she dance the same way again. Much to her chagrin. Her ballet career is now officially over. Her mom —a famous horror novelist, came up with a brilliant plan; to move on a remote town where she can have a new purpose in life, and find love.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

This story is taken from the perspective of our protagonist named Violetta '_Tansy_' Piper.

Tansy is a ballet prodigy. Two years ago, she won a silver medal for her performance in the Youth America Grand Prix and bag the Best Young Talent Price in Prix de Lausanne where she performed Giselle Act I, the largest student ballet competition in the world. Her performance also earned her acceptance to the Royal Ballet School in London. However, things have drastically changed when she got involved in a car crash breaking her toe in the process. Although, she never lost her ability to walk, her dancing career was put in jeopardy.

Her mom, a famous author. The female counterpart of Stephen King, so they say, had came up with the idea of moving on to a secluded town where her grandfather once spent his childhood.

The idea seemingly mortifies Tansy and freezes out her relationship from the world she used to be. But things have change when she met Henry. The previous owner of the Mega Manor they're now renting.

What she don't realize is the impending revelation she'd never thought possible. Things get into crazy turn when Tate Hudson, alias campus heartthrob, a.k.a the Football Team's quarterback adds to the equation of her blossoming little romance with Henry. What other people don't realize is; Henry is a resident ghost. And its Tansy could only see him.

What she be able to regain her life after the tragedy? Will love be part of her ever-changing path? Find out more in...

**Dance of the Thousand Cranes!**

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:**

A classic retelling of a favorite YA book. The overall theme of the story aswell as the plot lines are heavily adapted/excerpted or derived from the book **Through her eyes** by Jennifer Archer.

This story is only made for fanfiction. A _what-if_ canon.

All rights reserved for HarperTeens, and Ms. Jennifer Archer for the publication of the book where this story is excerpted from.


	2. Ch1: Henry

**_Henry_**

Last night, I dreamed I was flying, stretching out both my arms hoping that it might act as wings. When the howling wind refused to lift me, I closed my eyes and wait impatiently for death to take me away. Only to realize I wasn't really flying, but _falling_. And the helpless _cry_ of a girl can be heard from above, as she saw me falling to the ground.

And then I died. On a bitter, cold night. Beneath a black sky and a bruised winter moon... I found myself lying unconscious on the ground. Beneath the deep cleft of the _canyon_.

The end came rather quickly and painless. I initially thought, it's freedom atlast! Yet no Angel of Death nor Mercy come to rescue me. And lead my soul to where it should be; Instead, I found myself trapped in this _rinky-dink_ old town as I was when am still living. What makes it even worse is the fact that am forced to roam my old country home which remains isolated as it always were. The barren fields, this dusty wind-battered town full of small-minded bores, _people_ to be precise. But the worst part is... the girl I love is gone.

I have no one else around. You see am just a ghost. A ghost from the past. Still wandering. _haunting_.

Life as a ghost isn't bad at all. At least I can do what I want and float with ease. Yes we lost our ability to walk, but this gives us the privilege to fly. _To soar high_. Finally, I am flying. Though not beyond the sky's limit. The atmosphere serves as the wall to the infinity. We are no different to a bird. Hovering like mist and as free as the air to move along. But none of it can hide the fact that am just an unseen ghost trapped for so long...

Tonight, I rode the wind once more. Which quite become a routine for me. Ready to take another long flight to the sky where the star kept shining bright. Then back from where I was, a long distant house that set me from the outside world apart.

Once inside I rush down the hallway past more vacant rooms, my silent screams bouncing off in every walls. My father's precious house, that once served as host to luxurious social events has gone empty for so long. The previously most celebrated house — the Pickfair of Cedar Canyon, is now devoid of life except for insects and rodents, and they can't help me ease the pain either; for the girl I love is now gone.

I can no longer smell the scent of her perfume. Nor taste the sweet honeycomb from her cherry-colored lips. I don't remember her face nor her voice anymore. For its been 5 long decades since I was gone. I missed her. I wish I could be with her. But I know t'was impossible. For I am trapped here all alone.

At the uppermost landing of the staircase, I slip beneath the door, back to the turret, which been my favorite refuge both in life and even after death. I swirl the room twice, once fast, then getting on slowly the second time. Soothed by the old plaster and wood that served as a deaf/mute witness to my living days and music score from my violin music, I reminisce the old notes that echoes from a time when I played for _her_ while she sings a song. Although the sound of her voice is no more for me to listen to, I know the sound we've made were utterly good. Very fascinatingly good. Like a concerto, where the likes of Johann Sebastian Bach, can applaud to.

Suddenly, the wind went calm, and the sound of a sneeze startles me out of my reverie. Curious, I sweep to the window that overlooks the land behind the house. The root cellar door stands open. Something or someone—a person perhaps—is getting up from the inside! A hand reaches up from the cellar and grabs a bag and two books from the ground beside the opening.

But who could this intruder be? and what was he doing in my cellar— _wait a second_? Is that Yeats and Shelly? Dante, Shakespeare, Rimbaud in the spine of the books he's holding?

And then just there, when tiny particles of hope long been felt, came flashing through me! Its as if I can feel my veins once more.

A person. The sort of mind that I might reach…or _possess_... is here!

Atlast! This one could be my salvation! My ticket pass to finally cross the after life!

Drifting through the window and down, I sift through the minute cracks in the splintered wooden door, eager to meet my _guest._


	3. Ch2: Tansy

**One Month Later**

Most people run from nightmares; well, my mom seeks them out. Her name is Millicent Moon, and she's a horror novelist—the female version of Stephen King, minus the megabucks and movie deals obviously. Whenever Mom starts working on a new book, she scouts out the perfect setting. Then she, my grandfather Papa Dan, and I move there. We've lived in a lot of cool places: the Queen Anne's neighborhood in Seattle; a loft overlooking the Cumberland River in Nashville; a neighborhood in southwest Boston where writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau used to hang out. But we've never lived anywhere like the place we're moving now, and I'd be a whole lot happier if we never did to be honest.

The reason why we end up going here is because Mom thinks it would be the best for us, mostly for me, to start anew. Two years ago, I was in _Road To Becoming A Prima Ballerina_. When all of a sudden, _BAAAAAAAAAAAAM_! Our car smashes. Shattering my dreams destroying my dancing career, _ultimately_. It wasn't my car we're riding. It was to my fellow dancer. A _Principal_ dancer into the Royal Ballet School. We were about to have a Welcoming Party for newbies. I included. But on our way, a truck came into our way which hit us like baseball, which instantly took the lives of my two ballet-mates, and smashed my left toe like a potatoe. The ordeal left me unfit to any ballet recital for the rest of my life.

Yes, I can walk as if nothing has happened. But won't be able to dance as _spritely_ as before.

It was two years ago now. And I kind of accepted my fate in the process. After a series of psycho-therapy sessions ofcourse.

We're almost there, Tansy," Mom says, tucking a lock of straight black hair behind her ear and staring ahead at the dusty, rutted road as if it's paved with diamonds. In the backseat, Papa Dan whistles. Loudly. I recognize the tune though. The lyrics have something to do with mares eating oats and little lambs eating ivy. Which is kinda spooky to say the least, especially when you move to a town like this.

Mom is currently working on a new novel. Which is as always a horror/thriller fiction. She says it will take place in the town where my grandfather spent his childhood: Cedar Canyon, Texas, population 2,250. Which, after driving through the town for the first time a minute ago, is a nightmare in itself, if you ask me. This will be my first small town experience, which is one reason why this move is the hardest one I've made so far.

After he finished school, Papa Dan left Cedar Canyon and never returned, so I haven't been here before and _neither_ has mom. But it is perfect to have a fresh new start. As mom used to say. She keeps saying it'll be easy to make friends in a little town, but I know that the size of the place won't change anything. There's no convincing her of that, though. Mom's chasing miracles by moving here. She hopes that Cedar Canyon will (1) make _ME_ forget — about the incident and the lost of my ballet career, and (2) make Papa Dan remember. Coz he's having a real hard time dealing with Dementia.

"I wish you would look at the photo." Mom slides her cat-eye sunglasses to the tip of her nose and glances across at me. "The place is incredible. Eloise said there's an old wagon bridge at the edge of the property near the canyon."

I turn to stare out the window at a dark cloud in the distance and try to tune out my grandfather's whistling. Over the past two days, I haven't spoken more than five words to Mom. But then, since she told me we were moving, I've hardly spoken much more than that, anyway. Maybe she's getting used to my near-silence. Not that I was gone mute. But, I simply don't feel like talking at all.

We're moving to an old texan house. A crazy old _manor_ to be exact. Which once belong to a gross-rich country family. Eloise—the leasing agent—said that it stood empty for centuries! Well, I feel just that but its only for five long generations. Before Mom found that picture, we were going to live in a house in town, instead of out in the boonies. But she called and asked about the place, and just my luck, Eloise confirmed that the house is in Cedar Canyon and that it was AVAILABLE!

"It even has a turret!" Mom gushes. "Can you imagine a turret in the middle of the Texas Panhandle?"

I give her another glance. To be honest, I haven't seen her so excited since the day we first pulled up in front of our tiny bungalow in California, the place we just left. We're not a _frequent mover_ from the start. We're just a normal family consist of Mother and Daughter, just like in the Gilmore Girls. If you were asking about my biological father, try to watch Gilmore Girls to catch a glimpse of us. I swear, it was just like us! I have my two grandparents from the mother side just like that... and a Mom, just like _that_.

Papa Dan, on the other hand, is my dad's father. He has lived with us all of my life, eversince I was born. I don't give any detail as to what happened between my parents, JUST WATCH THE GILMORE GIRLS will ya?

* * *

Five minutes pass. Ten. While I've been watching the bland scenery pass by, my cheek numb from the stale, frigid air blowing at me through the vent, Mom has become quiet and begin scanning me from the rear view mirror. I have a feeling she's freaking out, worrying about my state of mind. Because I hardly spoken since we'd left. Did I mention that already? But before I can even brace myself for an interrogation, the questions begin to flood...

"What are you thinking, sweetie?"

Without looking I answered her back, "Can't you see am writing on my journal?"

"Oh sorry sweetie, I didn't mean to interrupt. It is because I see you all red and sweaty in the face," she informs me.

"Coz I'm suffocating."

Aiming the air-conditioner vent at my face, she says, "Papa Dan, are you hot too?"

Mom doesn't get it. I've never seen a more wide-open space; there's hardly a tree or a tall building in sight or any sign of life whatsoever unless you count cows and prairie dogs. Just miles of flat, parched fields and endless sky. Yet, ever since we crossed the border into the Texas Panhandle, I've felt more trapped than ever…like I can't _BREEEEEEATHE_!

Five minutes pass. Ten, actually. While I've been watching the bland scenery pass by, my cheek numb from the stale, frigid air blowing at me through the vent, Mom has become abnormally quiet. I have a feeling she's freaking out, worrying about my state of mind, as always even after I finished the psycho-therapy class. But before I can even brace myself for an interrogation, the question begin _flooding_...

So what did you think of your first glimpse of Cedar Canyon?" she asks. "Isn't it quaint?"

"Yeah, quaint. A couple of gas stations and convenience stores. Oh, and let's not forget that rodeo arena we passed. Every kid here probably wears a cowboy hat."

She blows her bangs off her forehead and sighs. "Didn't you see all the antique stores and that cute old-fashioned diner on Main Street?"

"Dairy Queen?"

"No, not the Dairy Queen, the _Longhorn Café_!"

"How could I miss that statue of a bull out front? Something tells me they don't have a vegetarian menu." I nibble my cuticle. "Did you notice they only have one theater and the movie that's playing is over a month old?"

"You could always stay busy by taking pictures again. I can't remember the last time you picked up your camera."

My camera was a gift from Papa Dan on my tenth birthday when we'd just moved to Seattle. Nothing, I just thought it is note-worthy. So back to the scene...

"Maybe I will take some shots," I tell her.

"Great." Cautious relief trickles through her voice. "I really miss having your photos for my research. Taking pictures will be good for you."

Translation: It will force me to quit feeling sorry for myself, keep me from going "_peanutty_" in this crazy old town!

We turn onto a dirt road and hit a pothole. The van rattles. Papa Dan whistles louder. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Mom's smile. "Look!" She steps on the brake, slinging me toward the dash before my seat belt jerks me back. "There it is!" Mom sticks her sunglasses onto the top of her head. "It's perfect," she says. "Finally, we'd arrived! _WELCOME TO OUR NEW HOOOOME_!" Mom shrieks.

I glance through the windshield at the four stories of pure creepiness as Papa Dan ends the oat-and-ivy tune and starts whistling The Twilight Zone's theme music. Seriously, he couldn't have chosen a more perfect song. A warm gust of rain-scented air flutters my hair when we're out of the car. Without traffic noise, it's honestly quite spooky in here. The only sounds I hear are a low rumble of thunder, the hiss of the wind, the twitter of a bird or two, and the constant chirp of insects—crickets or maybe cicadas.

More like a scene from the poltergeist film.

"M-mom. I-I c-can't do this." I exclaimed.

"Do what, honey?" she asks succinctly.

"This. I-I can't live in this. Maybe you think it will work. But look at this crazy damn place?! Isn't it... I don't know. Abnormal?" then adds "I mean look at _THIS_ place?! Its totally creepy in here!"

A groove dents the space between her brows. "Honey. Just give this town a chance," she says. "If you like it, I promise we'll stay here until you graduate from high school."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll write fast." Her face softens. "And I'll set the next book back in San Francisco."

"And stay there until I graduate?"

Her smile fans tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. "You drive a hard bargain, but you've got yourself a deal."

And I'm holding her to it! I can't wait to call Hailey and tell her I'll be home soon. I'm going to hate Cedar Canyon! SURELY I WILL! And I've already made up my mind!


	4. Ch3: The Pocket Watch

Light suddenly spills from the first-floor windows of our new house. Minutes later, the second story glows, too. Mom appears at a window—a city slicker in an old Victorian house on the West Texas prairie. Leave it to her to set such a scene. I don't think she sees me, but I'm sure she's watching me. Rain sprinkles down. I run around to the side of the house and duck beneath the mulberry tree. Becoming a human lightning rod isn't my thing nor have any plans to be one. But I can't just go straight in that spooky old house. Not now. _Not just yet_.

I stare at the house and wish that I was back in my tiny San Francisco bedroom, curled up on my bed, surrounded by every stuffed animal I've saved through the years. But now, I'm just here. *SIGH* is this a punishment for surviving the accident with only a broken toe while the others were _gravely_ injured? I wasn't the one driving that night. I was at the back, watching as the other two sings to the tune of _A thousand miles_ as they glide and swerve the car along the street.

But _here I am_...

When the rain dies out a little bit, I began walking. Trying to find some interesting piece in this worn, dried out landmass with grey grass that seems to be untouched or trimmed for _loooooong_ decades. I saw an old-fashioned windmill sits off in the distance beyond the barn. It towers over the dead grass like a giant, fat-stemmed metal flower. The dark gray petals rotate slowly in the wind, moaning with each turn, complaining like Papa Dan does when his joints ache.

As I walk halfway to the barn, my heel hits something solid, and I'm thrown off balance. Steadying myself, I look down and see a wooden door in the ground. The entrance to hell, I think. Fitting, since our house could easily serve as the reception area. I kneel, grasp the damp, rusty handle, and pull. The door rasps and lifts an inch. I tug harder and it swings wide, revealing stairs that drop into a pitch-black hole. The second step has a gap in it, leaving only a shoe-width piece of board on which to step. I've never been inside a cellar and don't have a clue what I might find. Possibly some great material for Mom's research.

Leaving the door open, I run to the van, dig through the boxes packed in back, and find my camera and a flashlight. Then I hurry back to the cellar, switch on the flashlight, and point the beam into the darkness below. Taking cautious steps, I start down the stairs.

The cellar is about half the size of my bedroom in San Francisco. It could hold a twin-size bed and maybe a chair, but not much else. When I reach the bottom step, I set my camera bag on the dirt floor and sweep the flashlight beam across the cement walls, down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. Cobwebs stretch from corner to corner. Something makes a scratching noise beneath the steps and I jump, the transfer of my weight causing the board beneath my flip-flops to shift. I take a breath, step down, and crouch to lift the loose plank, surprised to find a container the size of a jewelry box beneath it.

Sitting on the stairs, I balance the flashlight on the step beside me and pull the box onto my lap. I aim the beam so that I can see every nick and scratch on the rose-tinted wood. Beneath the lid, I find a worn leather book, a gold pocket watch, and a tear-shaped crystal pendant. A tiny wire loop connects to the top of the crystal. I search the box for a necklace chain but don't find one. The crystal pendant feels cool and smooth as I hold it up and twist it left to right. The cut glass catches the light, throws it at the opposite wall, scattering colored dots across the cement.

Thunder rumbles quietly outside the cellar as I remove the pocket watch from the box. Etched into the gold on back are the words: **To Henry on your 17th birthday. From Mother and Father. 1939.**

* * *

One push of a tiny button opens the cover, revealing the timepiece inside. The hands have stopped at 12:22. Placing the watch on the step beside the crystal, I lift the book from the box, open it, touch pages yellowed at the edges. I position the flashlight so that I can read the poem scribbled in black ink on the first page, the tiny cursive letters sharp and tight—a _guy's_ handwriting. And it says...

_Down in the cellar, under a stair_

_Covered with cobwebs_

_Nobody cares_

_Withered and pale, forgotten it seems_

_That's where I hide them,_

_Yesterday's dreams._

_Shake out the memories, blow off the dust_

_Smooth out the wrinkles_

_Rub off the rust_

_Remember the times they sparkled so bright_

_Then put them away_

_Far out of sight_

_Down in the cellar, under a stair_

_Covered with cobwebs_

_Nobody cares_

_Withered and pale, forgotten it seems_

_That's where I hide them,_

_Yesterday's dreams._

"TANSYYYYY!"

Startled by Mom's shout, I drop the journal and push to my feet. "I'm here!" I hurry up the stairs, careful of the rotting boards, and poke my head through the cellar's entrance.

She stands at the door of a screened-in porch at the back of the house. "Some neighbors just dropped by. Come say hello."

"I'll be right there!"

The poem plays through my mind like a familiar song, as I speed walk to the house's front lawn.

* * *

"Eloise told us you write books, Miz Piper."

"That's right," Mom answers the man. "Horror novels. I write under the pseudonym Millicent Moon. And please, call me Millie. Everyone does."

I enter the living room in time to see the old man's gap-tooth grin disappear. "You mean like those chain-saw movies?" His upper lip curls over that rancid possibility. He glances at the short, round woman beside him, but she just keeps staring at Mom and chewing her gum, her face a wrinkled blank page.

Mom laughs. "I don't think I've used a chain saw in any of my books yet. I like to dream up my own unique methods of dismemberment." When she motions me over, I walk around a couch with a flowery sheet draped over it and stop beside her. "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Tansy," Mom says to the couple. "Tansy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum. They live in the farmhouse across the way."

"Howdy-do, young lady." The old man tugs the brim of his John Deere hat.

"Hi," I murmur.

"We was driving back from town and thought we'd stop by. Already said 'hello' to your grandpa. I remember him from when we was kids. He was five or so years ahead of me in school, though." Mr. Quattlebaum shifts back to Mom. "Guess y'all don't mind the rumors about the house, seeing as how you write scary books and all."

"Rumors?" Mom asks.

"The house is haunted." The farmer's voice drops. "So they say. Didn't Mr. Piper tell you?"

"No." Mom leans forward, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Really?"

"Eloise don't usually tell newcomers about the ghost." Mr. Quattlebaum pauses to scratch the beard stubble on his chin. "News has a way of gettin' around, though. Been six years since she's found somebody to rent the place. Before that, nobody ever stayed long."

"Why?" I ask. "Did something happen?"

"Imagination got the best of 'em, I'd guess," he says. "Back in the twenties, a rich rancher name of William Peterson built the house. When his son was a teenager, he killed hisself. Jumped off the old wagon bridge into the canyon that borders this property. His folks left town afterward. Couldn't sell the house, though." He pauses, then adds, "Rumor has it the boy's ghost still hangs around here."

A fluttery feeling fills my chest. Touching the camera case hanging from the strap over my shoulder, I feel the sharp edge of the journal inside and think of the poem scribbled onto an old yellowed page.

"Oh, I hope the ghost shows up," Mom says, scanning the room. "I've written about restless spirits, but I've never actually met one. Except Tansy, that is." She laughs at her own joke, and I roll my eyes. She's the restless one, not me.

Somewhere upstairs, Papa Dan begins whistling shrill and fast. Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum look up at the ceiling. His brows tug together. She chews faster.

"Mr. Piper might recall the tragedy," Mr. Quattlebaum says. "He would have been close to the Peterson boy's age."

"What was the boy's name?" I ask.

"I think it was Herman," says Mr. Quattlebaum. "Isn't that right, Myra?"

The old woman stops chewing, her puckered lips twitching as she meets my gaze. "His name was _Henry_," she says in a raspy voice. "_Henry Peterson_."


	5. Ch4: The Longhorn Cafe

Soon after the Quattlebaums leave in their big, noisy truck, the moving van arrives.

"Which is my bedroom?" I ask Mom. She'll be preoccupied with the movers for a while, and I'll have time to find a hiding place for my camera bag. I can't wait to take another look at Henry Peterson's things.

"Papa Dan's is the last one on the second floor," she says. "Take one of the others."

I choose the smallest room. It's painted a pale blue and doesn't have any furniture, which is good; I'd rather use my own dresser and sleep in my own bed. A window overlooks the backyard, and another window shows the huge mulberry tree in the side yard and the Quattlebaums' farmhouse off in the distance.

I'm heading for the closet when I hear a loud **thump** at the window and turn to look. Nothing is there, but I get the weirdest feeling that I'm being _watched_. '_Come on, Tansy._ _Get a grip'_, I told myself. A gust of wind probably made a limb on the tree scrape against the pane. I study the rain-glossed green leaves on the branches a moment, think how pretty they are, and unzip my camera bag. Reaching inside, I pull out my camera. I left color film in it the last time I used it, and for the first time in a long while, I have the urge to capture a scene.

I look through the viewfinder, my breath catching when I see a little gray bird perched on the window ledge. I'm sure it wasn't there before, but now it faces the window, as if it's staring straight at me. "Hey, there," I murmur. "Where did you come from?" Stooping and leaning closer, I adjust the lens for a clearer view, but something isn't right. The windowsill should be blue, but it looks as gray as the bird. Standing, I turn around, and still peering through the viewfinder, scan the room; everything within the frame looks gray and dreary. The walls. The hardwood floor. The light. The lens must be dirty. When I glance to the window again, the bird is gone.

Disappointed, I return the camera to the bag, then pull out Henry's pocket watch. I pop the latch, reset the time, and wind it, listening to it tick. I wish I could sit down right this minute and flip through the journal. I'm dying to learn more about Henry, but I don't want Mom to find me reading his poems. I'm not going to tell her about his things. He must've hid everything for a reason, and I feel a responsibility to respect his privacy.

* * *

The sun is about to set. Mom and I got hungry so we drive into Cedar Canyon to eat at the Longhorn Café. Our van jostles over the redbrick streets, past Cedar Canyon Hardware, the public library, and the two-story courthouse with its tall clock tower. We turn on Main, a street lined with shiny black lampposts and storefronts flanked by wooden barrels of mums. Mom parks in front of the newspaper office—the Cedar Canyon Gazette—which is directly across the street from the **Longhorn Café**.

* * *

Walking past the bull statue, we open the door and step into a sea of denim jeans, sneakers, and work boots. Nothing sets a single person apart from anyone else; at least that's what I think until a door beneath the Restroom sign at the back of the café opens and the one exception walks out—a girl about my age. She wears white shorts, sparkly black flip-flops, and an orange cheerleader jacket. Her cheerleader status must be a big deal to her; it's short-sleeve weather, but I guess she thinks the jacket is worth the sweat.

The girl stares at us as she parts the denim sea. She looks a lot like Hailey. She has the same big eyes and pale blond hair that she wears in a ponytail. The girl is tall and thin like Hailey, too. I watch her cross to a table where two people sit who I didn't notice before—a girl with long, wavy auburn hair and a freckled guy with messy curls. Seeing them all together, I feel a stab of loneliness. Just before the cheerleader slides in across from her friends, she turns to speak to a woman at the table behind her, and I see the name Alison written across the back of her jacket.

A waitress leads us to a booth on the far side of the room. Everyone in the café seems to know everyone else. They call out to one another as we weave around them. Hey, Bud, hey, Sarah. Billy, how's work? We missed you in church on Sunday. How are the kiddos? A lot of talk. A lot of laughter. I'm pretty sure we'll soon be the topic of conversation, since most of them look at us as if we just flew in from outer space. I could be imagining this, but I doubt it. We don't exactly fit in. Papa Dan wears his beret slanted to one side and the lenses of his round, tortoiseshell glasses are so thick that his eyes look like bulging green grapes. Mom wears a pink satin blouse with a mandarin collar, baggy black pants, and pink ballet slippers. Then there's me; I'm a sucker for hats, so is Papa Dan. He has a collection—berets, fedoras, old-fashioned newsboy caps. Today I'm wearing a gray felt fedora with a black satin band. The brim hides my eyes. A bonus.

I was right when I guessed the Longhorn Café wouldn't have a vegetarian menu. At first I think that means no dinner for me, since I don't eat meat. But the waitress points out a salad bar, so I walk over to check it out. The containers are filled with more pasta, canned peas, and mayo-coated salads than fresh vegetables, but it's better than nothing. I pick up an empty plate and put some carrot and celery sticks on it.

"_The potato salad's good,_" said a guy's voice beside me. "But I'd rather stay away from the cottage cheese gelatin mold."

I look up, and instantly lock my eyes into the bluest eyes I've ever _SEEN_! Which belongs to the hottest dude I've _EVER_ seen since we came to Texas!

Oh~my... if only you guys could see what I see. You'll understand why I almost skip a breath watching him so desperately... (^_~)!

I swear you guys! THIS GUY IS HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!


	6. Ch5: The Jock & the Jerks

The guy suddenly grins, and I almost forgotten myself to breathe! We stand almost elbow to elbow, and everything about him just hits me at once. Tall, but not too tall. Wide shoulders. Hair the color of honey. I lower my gaze to his black T-shirt, which reads Bobcat Football #10. Oh~ Just my luck—a jock. Translation: HUGE ego. I smile anyway; I don't know, I just couldn't help it!

"Uhm, err... T-thanks for the tip," I manage to say somehow.

"No problem." He hands me the spoon for the potato salad as I look back at the containers of food. "You passing through town?" he asks.

"Uhm, W-well... you could say that." I scoop the salad onto my plate and move down the bar. Is it just me? Or the airconditioner stops working? What happens to my voice by the way? Why does it sound gawky? (O_O)

"We get a lot of travelers off the highway."

I smiled. And gather some spinach. He reaches out for it too, and that's when our fingers brush! OMG! I've touched him! OMMMGGGGGGG! OH~Mmmmm~GGGGGG! I've touched the hottest guy in the face of TEXAS! HEEEELP! CALL THE AMBULANCE! I'm PREGNAAAAAAAAANT!

Nah~ I was just exaggerating. (~_^)

I glance up quickly, and catches his pretty blue,blue eyes staring back at me. I couldn't help but smile. The weird and flustered way. Alright, the maniac way! You get it?! Or whatever way you wanted to say. In that moment, I didn't know what to do. I got so **_SHOOK_**!

His visuals are sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Unreal. Surreal. Not real? Alright, _OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD_!

No~ He's not an alien though. He's just... I don't know how to put it. Erm, exemplary? YEAH! THAT'S IT _**TOTALLY**_!

"So. Uhm... your family owns this place?" I asks sounding a bit flirty. And am not proud of it okay?! '_OMG! Can somebody turn the AC ON already?!'_

"Nope. My _uncle_ does."

I move to the next container and spoon more food onto my plate. Hoping our fingers brush once more. HAHAHAHA. I know, am being _SNEAKY_, right?

Following me and filling his plate, too, he asks, "Where are you from?"

"California."

"I like your hat."

Now, that made me frown a little coz I think he's just making fun of me. But when I look back, I saw he isn't laughing. No seriously. NOT AT ALL! As a matter of fact, he looks sincere.

"Oh~ Uhm... T-Thanks. It's...i-i-its... IT'S from my grandfather!," I say. _AWKWAAAAAAAAAAARD!_ Okay, I'm literally almost die inside!

and he glances across the café at Papa Dan, then back at me.

We smile at each other again. I know I've been saying this over and over, but I still can't help but smile whenever I examine his face. He got this Logan Lerman vibes about him aside from being soft-spoken. His built is kinda similar to Ansel Elgort. His voice is as manly as Tye Sheridan. And when he smiles, he reminds me of Nick Robinson, GOSH they resemble a _LOT_!. Such a husband material, oh wait~ that's too much... _boyfriend_ material! Now that's better.

If he lives in LA, I'm pretty sure Disney would discover him as their next big star. Or perhaps Hollywood will brand him as the next heartthrob, who knows?

I've reached the end of the salad bar, and I feel like a total idiot standing there, picking up almost all the food in the counter while grinning at him, but I can't seem to stop. I swear, if you are in my position you won't either! _SWEEEEEAAAAAR!_

"Well, I'd better go." I told him. Thanks for warning me off the cottage cheese."

"Anytime. Have a good trip!"

_AWWWWWW_... I wish I could spend more time with him. He's soooooo _HOooooooooooOT_!

* * *

As I make my way toward the booth where Mom and Papa Dan sit drinking iced tea, I feel better than I have since we left California. But just after I pass Alison's table, I hear a girl say, "Oh, please. Look at that corny, lame hat."

I glance back. The girl with auburn hair is staring at me and laughing, one hand covering her mouth. I look quickly at the guy beside her, and one corner of his mouth curves up. "Corny and lame, but awesome," he says. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or if he means it. Sarcastic, I decide when the cheerleader named Alison hisses, "Shanna! Jon! Shut up!" She swivels around to face me, her eyes wide and apologetic.

I start for the booth again hoping that the guy from the salad bar is still there. I can't stand this people. Their malicious, insulting glance made me wanna throw up eventhough I haven't eat anything yet! If it wasn't for the good-looking guy, I will beg mom to leave this place. So disgusting! These people I mean.

Walking as fast as I can, I walk back to the salad bar. Scanning the room for the guy, until I spot him at a far-off table with a man. A middle aged man. Probably his uncle. They don't act as if they heard anything, I tried to get close by pretending to grab some meal not too far from where they're sitting. But the man he's having dinner with quickly notice my approach. So I almost crawl underneath the booth as I slide in to our table beside Papa Dan.

"Do you have a fever?" Mom says, one eyebrow raised.

Scowling at her, I say, "That's random. What are you talking about?"

Mom gestures at my plate, and I glance down at a mound of ham salad next to a few spinach leaves covered with bacon bits and the scoop of potato salad. PHEW! Tansy, what were you thinking? Aren't you a full-pledged vegan?!

I look up quickly, and Mom nods at the football jock across the café. "Good-looking _hunks_ have the same effect on me." Grinning, she adds, "See? Not everyone in Cedar Canyon is a cowboy, after all."

"Mom. Be quiet," I whisper, ducking my head. "You know I don't like jocks. And he isn't a hunk. Which is a stupid word, anyway."

She laughs. "When do you want an appointment to have your vision checked?"

I glared at her and mouth shut up, but Mom only chuckles. I turn my attention to Papa Dan, wanting to change the subject. "What did you order?" I ask, not expecting an answer.

Later, after we eat, we head to the register to pay the bill. Mom has her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her editor called again halfway through the meal and they're brainstorming the best way to "off" one of Mom's characters. From what I can hear, they've narrowed down the weapon choice to either a blowtorch or a Weed Eater. I step closer to the door and pull the brim of my hat a little lower.

Neither of us notices until it's too late that Papa Dan has wandered to a stranger's table and sat down. Mom ends her phone call quickly, and we dart over. While she apologizes to the lady, I hurry my grandfather toward the door. The laughter seems louder as we work our way around tables and chairs. I hear the girl named Shanna mumble in a disgusted tone, "Ohmygod. Did you see him?"

I look over my shoulder, hoping the guy from the salad bar isn't watching. But the man with him is already leaning across the table, talking and glancing our way. The hot guy quickly cuts his gaze in my direction. I can't see his face fully due to the poor lighting on his uncle's resto but I managed to catch his expression before he turn his back on. It was odd and strained.

Unsure of what to make of their exchange, I turn away, and for only a second, my eyes lock with Alison's. The sympathy on her face stiffens my spine. I don't need her or anyone else to feel sorry for me. I've had enough! —plus, it's probably a fake compassion. I should be the one pitying her. I only have to live in Podunk, USA, for a few months, but I have a feeling that she grew up in this old Dairy Queen town. The kids on her table roars with laughter as Mom gather Papa Dan to join us.

_GOODNESS_! can't they just f~ck off!


	7. Ch6: The Betrayal

I have NEVER felt super... incredibly... _GROSSLY_ humiliated like THIS before! Until our dinner at the infamous Long-_f*ckin_-horn Cafe!

I felt disgusted by the attitude of those small-town kids. To think that I've been from a city LARGER than this, and yet they've got the _nerves_ — THE NERVES to make fun of me and Papa Dan in public is soooooooo damn **_SH*TTY_**!

As soon as we got home, I quickly ran upstairs to and search for Henry's watch which I left earlier and wound it. I pop open the cover, and when the minute hand points straight up, I punch Hailey's number into my cell phone. Geez~ I can't wait to speak with her. To tell her everything that had happened in this god-forsaken town. And the gross behavior of those feeling-rich cowboy kids! After the tenth ring, I end the call and dial her landline. Mrs. Fremont picks up right away.

"Hi, this is Tansy," I say. It's great to hear her voice. I like Mrs. Fremont. She's an old-fashioned stay-at-home mom who makes the best brownies ever. We talk about the trip and Cedar Canyon for a little while, then I ask if Hailey can come to the phone.

"I'm sorry, Tansy," Mrs. Fremont says. "Hailey went to a concert."

"A _concert?_" I sit up. I'm having a bad feeling about this.

"Yes, with that boy from school. Corey—no, that's not right, it's—"

"_Colin_?" I can't believe what am hearing. Then, my stomach drops.

"Yes, that's his name. They went to see a local group… Filthy Red?"

"_Blue_," I murmur. "Filthy Blue?!" But that is Colin's favorite band! What on earth is happening? Is my bestfriend and boyfriend, stabbing me at the back? I could not believe this. I SWEAR I CANNOT BELIEVE THIIIIS! Colin? Hailey? SERIOUSLY?! WHAT ON EARTH ARE UP WITH YOU GUYS!?

"Hailey won't be home for a while. I know she'll be sorry she missed you. I'll tell her to call you tomorrow."

My throat hardens, and I can barely choke out a good-bye. All Hailey's warnings about Colin being bad news echo through my mind, followed by her promises. Call me your first night there. I promise I'll be home…. I don't care how far apart we live, you're my best friend. Nothing will change that. Yeah, right. I've only been gone a few days and she not only couldn't care less if she talks to me, she's going out with the guy I like. I can't believe Hailey would do this to me. I TRUSTED HER! I mean, she's like a sister to me. And Colin, I've trusted him too! So how could they do it to me?! How long they've been doing this to me?

GOSH! How could I have been so stupid?!

* * *

The dawn has come. And the wind has given way to a gentle breeze, and the sunshine and bright blue sky make the events last night seem like a _bad dream_. A _terrible dream_. I force my thoughts to other things, but when I picture Hailey with Colin at the Filthy Blue concert, I feel worse than ever. _No, Tansy, don't you cry!_ I tell myself. Atleast _not over them_. Who are they to begin with? They're just the two most unlikely people in the planet to me right now. I'm done with them.

_My bae with my bestfriend..._

I'm up before seven, wide awake in spite of my restless night. I pass Mom's bedroom on my way to the stairs. I tried to push back everything that I have dealt with yesterday. Clearly it wasn't a good day for a fresh starters like us. I went downstairs and joined Mom and Papa Dan in the kitchen. Looking forward to a bountiful breakfast!

Papa Dan sits looking out the side window at the mulberry tree, a pile of shredded paper napkin on the table in front of him. He glances my way and a smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are bloodshot, his face ashen, his thick silver hair a tangled mess. This morning, he wears wrinkled pajamas, and his feet are bare. I kiss his head on my way to the refrigerator. "Morning."

Top o' the morning to you, Tansy girl. The words echo from mornings long past, an Irish greeting spoken with the slight Texas drawl he never quite shed.

Mom walks in and opens the refrigerator. "Good morning, early bird," she says.

"The early bird was outside my window last night. It woke me up after midnight and kept singing off and on until morning." I sit back and look at her, hoping she doesn't notice I'm emotional. "Didn't you hear it?"

"No. Are you sure it was a bird?" She takes out the juice pitcher, then faces me. "That's odd for one to sing during the night."

"I didn't see it, but I know what a bird sounds like. I'm surprised all the birds around here haven't been blown to Oklahoma, there's so much wind."

Mom frowns. "Is something wrong?"

Thinking about the events yesterday, and then just there, I remember my conversation with Hailey's mother, AGAIN.

_My bae with my bestfriend... on a date together. Watching his favorite band perform live. A feat he never did with me when we were together._

I wonder _what else they could be doing_ without me...

I shake my head.

Dread sinks like a stone to the bottom of my stomach as I lift a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator.

"Tansy? Is there something wrong?"

Papa Dan's blank expression shifts to one of worried confusion. He touches my cheek, and I realize then that he only understands one thing—that I'm upset.

"What are you _thinking_ about?" Mom asks me as she leans against the counter, her back to the sink.

"Papa Dan. He seriously hates it here." Avoiding the topic that plays into my head since last night.

"Not this again." She sighs. "How do you know?"

I widen my eyes, hiss, "Look at him. He didn't get dressed before he came down."

Papa Dan's chair scrapes the floor as he pushes away from the table and stands. "Don't you want some toast, Dan?" Mom asks him, but he turns toward the door that leads to the living room and leaves without acknowledging either one of us.

"We shouldn't talk about him like he's not even in the room!" I screamed. And I don't know _why_.

"I know." She touches my arm. "The move has thrown him off, that's all. The doctor warned us that things like this could likely happen, even without the move."

"I heard him talking in his sleep."

Her eyes widen. "Talking?"

I nod. "Full sentences. He sounded upset."

"What did he say?"

"I couldn't hear all of it." I don't mention that he spoke in two different voices or that they seemed to overlap. She would either think I was dreaming or worry that I'm going _peanutty_ because of the move. This morning, I'm not so sure I don't agree with her.

The toast pops up. Mom places the slices on a plate and takes them to the table. "He may be a little stressed out from the trip."

"Maybe." I cross my arms. "Or maybe this place gives him the creeps."

I sit down across the table from my grandfather and lift my glass, then set it down again without drinking. Leaning toward him, I say, "Why did you have a picture of this house? Did you used to come here when you were a kid?" He only blinks at me, and I'm not sure he understands my question.

Reaching across the small table, I take his hand and whisper, "You talked last night…I heard you. Why won't you talk to me now?" I smile at him, tears blurring my vision. "I'm okay," I say, my voice too high. Sitting back, I reach for the fruit bowl and pluck a grape from the stem.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I hate what's happening to him. I hate it."

"I know, Tansy. I hate it, too."

"It's like he isn't even here sometimes. Just his body. And even it—" The words catch in my throat. I open my eyes and look at her. "It's so weird. He looks the same on the outside, but he's getting all shaky. And when he holds my hand, he doesn't feel as strong."

"He's always taken care of us. Now it's our turn to take care of him," Mom says softly.

Fighting tears, I say, "I miss him, Mom. _I miss him so much._"


	8. Ch7: Voices

Night has fallen once again. Its been days since we'd moved here, and yet am still not used to the sudden passing of time here in Panhandle. One moment, it was daylight and the sun is in full display since morning. And now, night has cast it shadows again.

Its only been 18 hours since the last time I hang up the phone. And I still clearly recall Mrs. Fremont's voice as she informs me of Hailey's date night with my on-again-off-again (but now its officially) EX-boyfriend. So my bestie stole my bae and began dating, huh? **HOW DARE THEY**!

If I knew that Hailey Fremont would b*tch me out, I should've rip her _free mont_! Such a WH*RE! **_GGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRR_**! I never thought that she's gonna stab me at the back like this. To think that we'd just move about a few days ago, there she goes stealing my beau already?!

I always know Colin's cheating on me— I've got receipts!. It happened a lot of times in the past. But with my BFF?! He'd just spit me on my grave for doing it.

"_What have I done to deserve this universe?!_" I mumbled. I'm trying to make light of the situation but deep inside, I couldn't contain my emotions. Tears kept pouring down like streams of water through my cheeks.

My hands shake as I open Henry's journal to the second poem. I don't know what to do, and most kids my age would probable go and hang out with their friends. But I can't for obvious reasons, Hailey is the only friend I've got. And we're on the smallest town in Texas Panhandle. Plus I don't have so much friends here, we're just like strangers in this place! And I doubt if I would ever have one, not after what happened in the Longhorn Cafe. So, I guess, the only option I've got is to... _read_? The only solace I can ever find. Is not from any fiction book. But a handwritten poem from the 1960's.

"_Don't believe the words they speak_

_When they look into your eyes,_

_When they swear to stand by you_

_Till the sun falls from the sky._

_Don't believe the hollow vow_

_Said with ease to humor you,_

_Woven stories sewn to please_

_But the golden threads aren't true…"_

Henry. I swear he is speaking directly to me! Reaching out from the page, through the years. How can someone who lived and died here so many decades ago know exactly how I feel?!

I jerk up from bed and sleepless rest. I blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. The curtains hang limp in the stale, stuffy air. Earlier, before I turned out the light, I opened the window just enough to let in a little of the cool, blustery air. But the wind has finally stopped blowing and the room is sweltering hot. Mom said she'll have air-conditioner units installed soon, so we can survive the Texas heat.

Somewhere in the distance a train wails, the sound reminding me of some of the lonely harmonica tunes Papa Dan used to play. I kick off the sheet, and a breeze sweeps across me, pebbling my skin with goose bumps. Weird. Where did such a cool draft come from on such a hot, still night? My door is ajar, but I remember Mom closing it long before I turned out the light. Could the wind have blown through the window earlier and forced the door open? Even though the latch is as old and worn out as the rest of the house, that doesn't seem possible. Besides, the door opens into the room, not out of it. Mom might've looked in on me again before she went to bed. That explains the door but not the breeze.

Too tired to worry about it, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 12:22. I burrow deeper into the pillow. Outside, a bird whistles then breaks into song, the warble low and strangely sad. For a moment, I recall the bird that I saw on the windowsill through my camera's viewfinder. Then my thoughts drift to Hailey and Colin and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting tears. Right now, Henry Peterson feels like my only friend. Some social life I'm going to have here—me and a dead guy hanging out on Saturday nights.

I read his second poem several times after I talked to Hailey's mom. I don't really believe his words were meant for me—advice from the grave. Yeah, right. But shaking off that uneasy feeling is hard to do, anyway. I think of him living in this big, gloomy house, walking the narrow hallways, maybe even sleeping in this room. Did he leave the window open in the summer? Did he lie awake and listen to a night bird's song, the train's sad wail, the monotonous hum of cicadas? I wonder if he found comfort in the dark isolation, in the creaks and whispers, the quiet sounds of a country night. Or did he feel as lonely as I do?

The bird's shaky lullaby relaxes me. But just as I'm in that twilight place between reality and dreams, the singing stops and I'm snapped awake again by the sound of a man's voice. It drifts to me from the direction of Papa Dan's room. Could it be him? Eight months have passed since my grandfather has spoken more than a mumbled word or two at a time. But now I hear full sentences delivered in a steady stream. I can't make out what he's saying, just his quiet angry tone, rising…rising, then falling to a low, rolling mumble. I don't remember Papa Dan ever sounding so tense or hateful. His tone of voice scares me.

Sitting up, I strain to hear more clearly. I tell myself he must be talking to Mom, but my stomach tilts anyway. Why don't I hear her? The muscles in my legs twitch as I push from my bed and tiptoe to the door. Standing at the threshold, I count to three, draw a breath, and hold it. Then I poke my head into the dark hallway and look toward Papa Dan's room. No light shines beneath his door.

"I won't," he says in a quiet, threatening voice that doesn't sound like him at all. He must be talking in his sleep, having a nightmare…. I should wake him. The hallway between my room and Papa Dan's seems a mile long as I make my way to his door. Pausing, I reach for the knob.

"_Listen to me…._" a ghastly voice says.

Now that I'm closer, Papa Dan sounds more like himself. But then I hear two voices at once…almost _overlapping_!. Then comes a sharp tone "LEAVE!" A pleading, "I SAID _LEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAVE_!" "NO, Watch out!" "_NOOOOOOOO!_"

Panicked, I step back. What I heard…what I think I heard…is crazy. Impossible. Still, the echo of those two separate voices speaking at the same time reverberates inside my head. Someone is in the room with my grandfather. I know I should go downstairs and get Mom, but I can't leave him alone and defenseless, even for a minute.

Poised to pounce on a burglar if necessary, I grab the doorknob and turn it, pushing open the door. Cool air rushes past me then disappears, leaving me standing in the same fog of heat that hangs heavy in my own room. A yellow moon spills enough light through the gauzy white curtains to highlight my grandfather's silhouette. He's sitting alone at the edge of the bed, facing me, his back to the window, quiet now. Still.

"Papa Dan?" I whisper. "You okay? I'm going to turn on the light." I flip the switch, squinting against the sudden glare.

My grandfather blinks and glances at me. His eyes flash confusion at first, then recognition and relief.

I scan every corner, look under the bed and in the closet, relaxing little by little when no one jumps out at me. I tell myself I only imagined two different voices speaking at once. But I'm still trembling when I sit beside Papa Dan. I hug him and notice he's trembling, too. "You're afraid, aren't you?" I squeeze his shoulders, hoping he'll answer me, but he's not talking now. "It's okay. This place freaks me out, too!" I remarked.

His arms come around me. Against my chest, his heart thumps hard and fast.

"It's okay…it's okay. Everything's fine..." I said trying to assure him that all is well, as he always used to reassure me whenever I was afraid. But it's all a lie. Everything isn't fine. Something is wrong with this house. Papa Dan knew it the minute we arrived. "You don't want to live here, do you?" More than once, Mom has mentioned that before he got sick, he told her he wanted to take a trip to Cedar Canyon. Now I wonder why he would want to come back after so many years away. Did he want to dig up a memory—or bury one?

My gaze settles on a photograph on the nightstand: Papa Dan and my grandmother with my dad between them. I study their faces, remembering an album I found in Papa Dan's closet when I was about six years old. Inside were black-and-white snapshots with yellowed edges, images of people from another time, faces I didn't recognize. Surrounded by his shoes, I sat on the floor and flipped through the pages. When Papa Dan found me there, he took the album away. That was one of the few times he ever scolded me.

He has other photo albums that he leaves out for anyone to see, and on a night months ago when his mind was still clear, we looked through them together. Papa Dan talked about places he had lived and visited. He didn't mention Cedar Canyon, though. Not once. Most of the pictures were of him and my grandmother, a few of my dad. Some were of his parents and Papa Dan as a boy. He didn't show me the photograph of this house that Mom found, and there were no shots of his childhood friends. No school group pictures.

In the photograph on the nightstand, my grandparents' shoulders press together; my dad clings to Papa Dan's leg. Sitting back, I take my grandfather's hand in mine, startled by how weak his grasp has become over the last few months.

I can't remember my dad's touch. Even so, I've mourned losing it. How much worse will it be to know a touch and have it taken away?


	9. Ch8: The Viewfinder

After breakfast, Papa Dan and I head for the field behind the house. I'm trying to distract myself from the horrifying experience last night in Papa Dan's room. Aswell as to shake things off from my thoughts about Hailey and Colin.

Just ahead, the old windmill's blades spin slowly, like a twirler's baton in a marching band. I wonder if Cedar Canyon High School has twirlers—the old-fashioned kind with white ankle boots, short flirty skirts, and fringed jackets. Perky little cowboy hats perched at an angle on their heads. The image pulls a laugh from me, and it feels as good as the sun on my face. Papa Dan lags behind. I turn to check on him, and movement over at the Quattlebaum farmhouse catches my eye. Lifting the camera, I zoom in for a better view, using the lens like binoculars. A man—Mr. Quattlebaum, I guess—shovels the yard at the side of the house, tossing each scoop into a pile beside him. He's wearing a dark coat and hat, even though it's warm outside. Weird. Everything framed in the viewfinder looks colorless. I adjust the focus, but it doesn't help. I must need to clean the lens.

Pausing to wait for Papa Dan to catch up, I watch the rhythmic plunge and lift of Mr. Quattlebaum's shovel. Somewhere close to his house, a bell clangs. A second later, a big black dog prances up to the farmer. Mr. Quattlebaum leans on his shovel, takes something from the dog's mouth, and throws it. The object sails through the air and disappears behind the barn. The dog bolts after it and out of sight. Mr. Quattlebaum pulls off a glove and holds his hand to his mouth, as if he's warming his fingers with his breath.

Now, that's pretty freaky, I think. The man must be really cold-natured; the temperature outside is at least sixty-five degrees.

Before I can wonder any more about it, Papa Dan's whistling draws my attention and I lower the camera to look at him. Wiping the lens with the hem of my shirt, I say, "Hey, slowpoke. What took you so long?" I glance at my watch: 8:15. "At the speed you're moving, we'll reach the windmill in time for lunch," I tease. I take his hand, and we start walking again.

A cloud moves over the sun, casting a shadow across us. When I look toward the Quattlebaums' farmhouse, the farmer and the dog are gone, and something about the scene seems off—different somehow. Releasing Papa Dan's hand, I pause and use the zoom lens to zero in on the farmhouse again. Cleaning the lens worked; the image is bright and colorful. The yard is smooth, untouched.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and goose bumps scatter up my arms. What was Mr. Quattlebaum shoveling? Something that he tossed into a pile at his side—a pile that's no longer there. How strange is that? Beyond strange. Maybe Mom wasn't teasing when she said I need glasses. Shaking off my unsettled feelings, I lower the camera and hurry to catch Papa Dan at the windmill. He holds his cap and shades his eyes with one hand as he looks up at the twirling blades.

In that instant a shaft of sunlight illuminates my grandfather. My breath catches and I stop. Luminosity. In photography the term refers to the brilliance created by a light source or radiated back from the face of something. Right now, it seems as if the sunbeam doesn't shine down on my grandfather, but rather that he emits the ray that stretches between him and the sky. Amazed by the beautiful sight, I lift the camera and take the shot.

After I shoot several more pictures, we make our way back to the barn where I take photographs of the ramshackle building at different angles. The camera feels good in my hands. I've missed it. Life always seems so clear when I'm seeing it through a lens.

I hear Mom talking in the front yard as we make our way in that direction by way of the side of the house. Papa Dan pauses beside the mulberry tree and his whistling stops. A breeze flaps the fabric of his baggy pants. Birds chirp, filling the air with music. I follow my grandfather's gaze to a nest tucked in the crook of a bent-knuckled branch.

"You want me to take your picture?" I ask him, but the tree holds his attention. He doesn't seem to be looking at the nest anymore but at the limb beneath it. "Papa Dan!" I call, laughing, feeling better after spending this time with him outside. "Look at me! Smile!" Though he doesn't turn, I lift the camera, peer through the viewfinder…and freeze.

The image in the frame is completely still. Black, white, and gray. Like a photograph already shot. Snow dusts the scene like powdered sugar. A guy about my age occupies the space where Papa Dan stood only a moment ago. He wears a coat and a woolen scarf, an old-fashioned winter hat with earflaps, heavy boots on his feet. A sparrow hovers above him, paused in midflight. The mulberry tree seems smaller and the limbs are bare. On one of them, I see a faint, blurred silhouette—a second guy dressed in bulky clothing. The boy on the ground stares up at the guy in the tree, and the guy in the tree stares back, his eyes the only distinguishable feature in the white smudge of his face.

The wind has died. The birds no longer sing. I don't hear Mom's voice around the corner. Only silence. Adrenaline shoots through me, and my stomach flips over. I jerk the camera away from my face.

At once, birds chirp and chatter, and Mom's laughter drifts to me again, carried by a whispering breeze. No phantom sits in the tree, and only blue sky fills the spaces between the limbs. Papa Dan gazes up into the flickering green leaves, his focus on the branch beneath the nest where the sparrow lands with a flutter of wings. At my feet, patchy grass covers the ground instead of snow.

"Papa Dan," I whisper. But he won't turn to me. He won't glance away from the tree. A chill ripples through me as I lift the camera again and look through the viewfinder.

Silence. Everything black and white and gray, everything frozen in time, snow on the ground. The boy standing in Papa Dan's place stares up at the tree where the blurred guy sits with his legs draped over a limb. But the pale, hazy phantom no longer stares at the boy on the ground.

_**He stares straight at me...**_


	10. Ch9: The Film negatives

Somehow I manage to press the shutter release and take the picture before I drop the camera; only the strap around my neck saves it from hitting the ground. Grabbing Papa Dan's hand, I practically drag him behind me as I hurry around the corner of the house. Mom stands in the driveway talking to a small blond man with a deep Texas drawl. He wears a brown uniform and tan cowboy boots. Relief sweeps through me when I see letters plastered across the door of his white SUV that tell me this man is the county sheriff. My first instinct is to tell him what I saw. But what did I see?

"There you are," Mom says. "Come meet Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Sheriff, this is my father-in-law, Daniel Piper, and my daughter, Tansy."

"Mornin', young lady…sir," he says, smiling.

I pause beside them and open my mouth to reply, but I'm too shaken up to speak.

Mom pulls off her sunglasses. "What's wrong?"

I didn't answer.

* * *

I should've known Cedar Canyon wouldn't have a place to process film. Which is one more reason I should ask for a digital camera for Christmas. Putting away my 35 millimeter would be hard, though. It's been a friend for so many years. A better one than Hailey, that's for sure.

While Papa Dan scans the magazine rack, I talk to the pregnant woman behind the counter at City Drug—Mary Jane, according to the name tag on her blouse. "Saturday, I'm driving into Amarillo. I'd be happy to drop off your film at the one-hour photo," she says.

"Thanks, but you don't have to do that."

"If it was any trouble, I wouldn't offer," she assures me. "I'll run my errands and pick it up when I'm heading home."

I hesitate a moment before handing Mary Jane the film. I don't even know this woman. But I'm not sure how long it will take to get my darkroom up and running, and I doubt Mom and I will be going to Amarillo anytime soon. I also need some answers. I need to know what did I see and if the camera catches the images of the ghostly figure at the tree. Or t'was just a product of my _wild imaginations_.

Mary Jane drops the film into her purse. I have a sudden urge to grab it, to not let it out of my sight. That roll contains the proof that I'm either losing my mind or I'm not.

"Write down your name and number and how you want the pictures," Mary Jane says, handing me a pad of paper and a pen.

"How I want them?"

"The size and finish." Reaching behind her, she presses a hand against the small of her back, winces, and mutters, "Roger better not expect me to cook dinner tonight. In fact, I think I'm swearing off cooking until after this baby comes."

As I'm writing down the information, a tall, balding, middle-aged man wearing a white pharmacist's smock walks up to Mary Jane behind the counter. He winks at me, points at her stomach, and whispers, "Being pregnant makes her cranky."

One row behind us, Papa Dan flips the pages of a magazine and whistles a jazzy tune. Satisfied that he's occupied, I hand the paper to Mary Jane.

"I don't think we've met," the pharmacist says. "I'm Jim Bob Cooper, chief pill pusher, bottle washer, and owner of this bustling enterprise. Call me J. B."

Jim Bob, Mary Jane, Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Does everyone in this town over the age of thirty have two first names? I introduce myself and we shake hands.

"Oh, you're the writer's daughter."

"Yes," I murmur.

"I heard you folks made it into town. Nice to have you here." J. B. gestures toward the cashier. "The ray of sunshine behind the register is Mary Jane McAllister."

"Nice to meet you," Mary Jane says. "You'll have to come back for a chocolate soda or a root-beer float some afternoon. The fountain's a popular after-school place." She nods toward the far side of the shop, where a row of chrome stools with round red tops lines an old-fashioned soda fountain counter. Glasses in all shapes and sizes are stacked on shelves behind the bar, and the wall is covered with a chalkboard menu and old signs advertising Coca-Cola and Hires Root Beer.

Before I can respond, the door opens, and two girls and a guy walk in. I flinch when I realize it's Alison and her A-hole groupies.

The freckle-faced guy struts in like a puffed-up rooster. His gaze cuts in my direction, and his mouth curves up at one corner. He nudges Alison with his elbow, and she looks at me and says, "Oh, hi."

"Hi," I say quietly, grateful the brim of my hat hides my eyes when the other girl smirks and glances away. Lowering my head, I take off to look for Mom's ibuprofen.

"Hey, hoodlums," J. B. calls out to the threesome, and they tease back and forth with him while I scan the aisles.

"My kids have missed you, Alison," Mary Jane says, sounding cheerful now. "You sure you can't squeeze in a little time to babysit for me every once in a while?"

"Sorry," Alison replies. "I wish I could, but between school, cheerleading, and volunteer work in Amarillo, my weekends are going to be totally packed this year."

Mary Jane sighs. "Your mom told me you were crazy busy. She said you're shooting for the honor roll this year. Good for you."

"Yeah, Alison's become completely boring," the rude girl says. "She has this sudden bizarre obsession with the letter A."

"That's 'cause she never learned the rest of the alphabet, Shanna," Rooster Boy calls from the direction of the soda fountain.

Alison laughs. "Shut up, Jenks."

"I'm just sayin'…," he mutters.

I find Mom's ibuprofen, then slowly start up front again. From the corner of my eye, I see Rooster Boy spinning in a circle on one of the soda fountain stools. As I place my purchase on the counter, he gets up and starts toward me. "Hey, I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting me," he says. "I'm Jon Jenks."

"Idiot," Alison murmurs, her mouth pulling into a tight smile that isn't really a smile at all. She and Shanna wander over to a candy rack and disappear behind it.

"I'm Tansy," I tell Jon.

"So I heard. Welcome to the big city." He nods toward the girls. "Don't worry about the wildlife; they aren't as fierce as they seem."

"I'm not worried."

"Now I, on the other hand, bite." Wiggling his brows, he starts off toward the magazine racks.

J. B. shakes his head and sighs. "Always the clown." Shifting his attention from Rooster Boy to Papa Dan, he asks, "Is that gentleman looking at magazines your grandfather? I heard he used to live here way back before I was born."

"Yes," I say. "His name's Daniel Piper." When the pharmacist calls out a greeting to Papa Dan, I lower my voice and say, "He doesn't talk."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Papa Dan yells, "_WwwwoooooOOO-WweeeeeEEEE!_"

Giggles drift from behind the candy rack.

"He doesn't talk much," I add, my face heating up when I notice that my grandfather is looking at a Cosmo magazine while Rooster Boy snoops over his shoulder.

"Well, I'm pleased to meet both of you. I look forward to meeting your mother, too. It's not every day I get to talk to a famous author." J. B.'s smile is kind, but I don't feel any less mortified. "What else can I help you with today?" he asks.

"You don't sell film, do you? I need five rolls of black-and-white."

"Yes, we have film." He stoops to search beneath the counter.

I scan the store but don't see the girls. Rooster Boy has moved to the opposite end of the magazine rack from Papa Dan. I feel Mary Jane watching me and glance at her. She settles one hand on her bulging belly and says, "When we heard a published author was moving to town, my husband bought one of your mom's books at the grocery store. Something about a zombie girl."

Rooster Boy sputters a laugh, and I wish for the hundredth time my mom was a secretary or a nurse or a lawyer.

I shrug. "I'm pretty sure that's the goal." Faking interest in the merchandise on a nearby shelf, I pick up a box, then realize I'm reading the directions for applying hemorrhoid medication and set it back down. I search the shelves for something else to help me escape the woman's scrutiny. Enemas. Home pregnancy tests. Condoms. Tampons. No place is safe!

"The Peterson house ought to give your mom plenty of material for her books," Mary Jane goes on.

Hoping she'll forget about me if I ignore her, I move to the analgesic creams. I hear a girl's giggle in the next aisle, hear my name whispered, followed by a shhhh. Ducking my head, I read the label on a tube. Apply small amount to cut, abrasion, or wound to reduce sensitivity.

"Here you go, Tansy," J. B. calls, and I walk over to the counter as he hands Mary Jane the film. "Sorry that took so long. We don't get many requests for black-and-white."

Mary Jane rings up the sale. "Have you heard that the Peterson kid who lived in your house back in the thirties committed suicide?"

Startled, I nod and say, "Mr. Quattlebaum told me."

"My grandma says he was nuttier than a fruitcake. He was a class ahead of her in school, but she and pretty much everyone else steered clear of him. I grew up hearing her stories about the strange things he'd do. Grandma said he used to walk the railing on the old wagon bridge that crosses the creek in the canyon. Have you been out there?"

"Not yet."

She shakes her head. "A person would have to be crazy to do that. It's a long drop to the creek bed. Sometimes people would see him sitting alone in the canyon, playing his violin. Grandma said he was an artist, too. He painted pictures."

_And wrote poems…_ I comment to myself

"They say he was a loner. A real oddball. Or he might've been depressed. Back then, nobody thought kids suffered from depression." they went on.

Excusing myself, I walk over to the magazine rack to get Papa Dan, ready to make my escape. Rooster Boy is flipping through a car magazine as I pass behind him. "Let's go," I say to my grandfather. I put back his magazine and lead him down the aisle.

"See ya Monday at school, Zombie Girl," Rooster Boy mutters as we pass by. Heat scorches my neck. I don't look at him, just keep my focus on the door.

"_What the heck is up with that girl?_" I heard the b*tch girl named Shanna said as we went outside.

As I'm driving through town, every person we pass waves at us as if we're old friends. I feel weird waving back, but I don't want to seem unfriendly and earn another lecture from Mom. I brush aside thoughts of Alison and her friends, how self-conscious I felt around them, how Shanna completely ignored me. Instead, I think of Henry Peterson and Mary Jane's grandmother. I wonder if Mom would let me drive the forty miles into Amarillo. I could tell her I want to go shopping. She hates malls, so maybe she'd let me go alone. I want to go to Willow Grove and ask the old woman about Henry.

We cross the city limits, and the landscape empties. In my mind, I picture Henry sitting in the turret with only his violin to keep him company, shut off from the world. Mary Jane called him an oddball for it, but I don't consider his behavior to be all that strange. Maybe Henry and I are two of a kind.

As I make the turn onto the road that leads to the house, I glance at Papa Dan and the hairs on my arms stand on end. He stares out the windshield, a far-off, haunted look in his eyes. I wonder if he sees what I see: the dirt road ahead, the man mowing the tall weeds in the parched yard alongside our driveway, the Cedar Canyon Handyman Service truck parked there. Does he see the house? The hollow-eyed windows? Henry's turret sticking up from the roof like a vulgar insult?

A shiver snakes through me. I have a feeling he's looking at a very different scene. One I might see, too, if the light shifted.

Or if I looked through my _camera's viewfinder_.


	11. Ch10: The Watermelon Run

Earlier this morning, I hauled out the junk in the turret that the owners left there. The turret has a bathroom, which is perfect, since I need a sink and water to use for processing. And maybe I'll feel closer to Henry there, if Mary Jane at the pharmacy knows what she's talking about. My feelings about our resident ghost are all mixed up. The thought of Henry's spirit hanging out here scares me a little, but I read another of his poems last night and I don't care if he was a freak or not; he feels like the one person who understands me.

"Fine," says Mom, "I'll help you. What do we need to do?"

"Vacuum and paint the walls," I tell her. "It's so windy all the time that dust is all over the place up there. A speck of dirt can ruin the processing."

"I saw some white paint in the garage. But we don't have to do it. The handyman is coming back tomorrow to get started. I'll tell him to add painting the turret to his list."

"I don't want to wait. I'd rather do it myself so it'll be right."

Mom smiles wryly. "Okay then, Miss Perfectionist. We'll get to it after breakfast." She kisses my forehead, then stands and starts toward the door. "I'm glad you're taking pictures again. You should bring your camera along to the stadium tonight."

The football field opens up in front of us, a long stretch of green divided into grids by straight white lines. A curving red track with seven lanes surrounds the field, and it's cluttered with makeshift booths—card tables filled with crafts, baked goods, glasses of lemonade, and other items for sale. At least fifty band members, dressed in their regular clothes, stand in rows, center field, warming up.

"The woman I spoke with on the phone said to look for her on the track directly beneath the press box," Mom calls back to me. She leads Papa Dan in that direction, and I follow behind, watching the opposite sideline, where six female cheerleaders in short orange skirts practice backflips and cartwheels. Alison's bouncing blond ponytail is hard to miss. I keep my gaze on her, wondering what it would've been like to grow up in a town like this. Do the kids here know there's more to life than football? I seriously doubt it.

The band breaks into a familiar fight song, and like programmed robots, the cheerleaders' pom-poms snap into position as they begin a dance routine. "Go, Cats! Fight, Cats! Win, Cats!" they yell, pumping their pom-poms into the air. Alison bumps her hip against the girl on her left, and I realize it's Shanna beside her. No surprise. Fans whistle and clap, chanting along with the cheerleaders. The school mascot wears a cat suit, complete with a tail and claws. He runs up and down the sidelines, then pulls off the bobcat head to yell at someone in the bleachers. Rooster Boy. I groan out loud.

People of all ages laugh and talk on the bleachers, wander around the sidelines, and visit with one another at the booths. All so at ease, so familiar with one another. My stomach wobbles. How will I ever feel like I belong in this little town where everyone else seems to have known one another all of their lives? In the cities I've lived in before, the schools were full of unknowns—outcasts, or other transplants like me, just passing through.

"Millicent!" a shrill voice calls, and I turn to see a tall, skinny woman in jeans, a Bobcat T-shirt, and tennis shoes waving frantically at us from beside a card table. The table is decorated with black crepe paper that flutters in the breeze. "Millicent Moon!"

"Della?" Mom calls back.

She nods. "Della Shroeder. We spoke on the phone?"

"Oh, look what you've done!" Mom exclaims, guiding Papa Dan toward the grinning woman. I follow, mortified by what I see. A little boy and girl dressed in torn black clothing stand next to Della Shroeder. Their eyes are smudged black with makeup, and red lipstick is smeared on their faces to simulate blood. Mom sets her box on the table and says, "Well, hello, little zombies!" Della and Mom shake hands. "You've gone to so much trouble," my mother says. "This is so creative. I love it!"

"No trouble at all," says Della. Indicating the zombies, she says, "These are my twins, Luke and Lacy."

Mom introduces Papa Dan and me, then settles my grandfather in one of two folding chairs on the opposite side of the card table. I open a box and begin setting books next to a bouquet of black and gray carnations as fast as I can, ready to go off on my own before anyone my age wanders by and sees the whole lame setup. After we finish arranging the display, I stack the empty boxes under the table, then catch Mom's eye from where she stands talking to a group of ladies. I lift my camera, and she nods.

The upper third of the stands is empty. I make it to the press box and sit on the low cement wall alongside it, above the top bleacher bench. I can see everything—the band on the field, the cheerleaders and Rooster Boy on the opposite sideline, the townspeople milling about. When I look straight down and use my zoom, I see Mom and Papa Dan from behind. The gaudy black booth has attracted a small crowd. I recognize some of the group—stone-faced Mrs. Quattlebaum, Reagan from the grocery store, Della Shroeder and her zombie twins, J. B. the pharmacist and Mary Jane—who didn't even contact me today about my pictures. I felt funny calling her on a Sunday, so I didn't. The truth is, I was a little afraid of seeing the photos, anyway, so I put it off. I'm still afraid. Or more like freaked out, I guess. I'll go by City Drug after school tomorrow, first thing, and pick them up. Might as well find out the truth about what I saw—or didn't see—in that mulberry tree, one way or the other.

Aiming the camera randomly from the field to the sidelines to the bleachers across the way, I shoot pictures quickly—band members marching, Rooster Boy strutting, cheerleaders bumping and grinding. A father chasing a toddler away from the field; families cheering in the stands. I shift again to Mom's booth. Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth is there now, too.

It's only then that I tune in to an argument going on a few feet behind me, on the other side of the press box. Two male voices—one older, the other young.

"We've already talked this to death," the older man says. "Get your butt over to that grocery store and join your team! You're suited up and ready to go. Now get out of here!"

"Dad, I—"

"Don't argue with me, Tate. I thought we decided—"

"_You_ decided. I just gave in, like always! I'm not you, Dad. I'm not you. I don't want to play football this year. I want to—"

"Waste your time on a bunch of nonsense? Give up the sure bet of a football scholarship for the slim chance you might win a _stupid_ contest?!"

"It's not just a _stupid contest_, Dad, it's—"

"Do you want to go to college or don't you?"

"If I win, it'll help pay tuition! Why can't you—"

"If _you_ win," the father says with a dismissive huff.

"If Mom were here—"

"Well, SHE ISN'T! Okay? I am!. As long as you're living under my roof, you listen to me! UNDERSTOOD?!"

"Forget it," the guy says in a clipped, defeated voice. After a long pause, he says, "It's too late for me to catch the team, anyway. Here they come."

A roaring cheer rises up from below me, and I glance down to see football players in uniform rushing onto the field, each one carrying a watermelon. Upon seeing their half naked body... well, not totally _naked_ though. Sure they are wearing the Football uniform, but its kind of trimmed down their belly which kinda shows their _HOT STEAMY ABS_! If you guys can picture this. "OH MY GOSH!" I murmur.

The sweat truly compliments their toned muscles from up to down there under. Okay, I'm not going to full details here! I'll just go and snap pictures. Yeah~ That's probably the best option. OMGGGGGG! My lenses on feast! Oh Hailey, if you only see what I see, you won't go fishing for your bestie's boyfie! Oh well, poor you! HAHAHAHAHA

"Ladies and gentleman…," it booms, "the Cedar Canyon High School fighting Bobcats have arrived!" The band begins a rousing chorus of the school song. People in the stands and on the sidelines lift their hands above their heads along with the cheerleaders, moving their arms left to right with the music and singing. The players deposit their watermelons into a pile on the grass at the edge of the field.

I take shot after shot, moving quickly, but my mind is on the quarrel I overheard between the guy named Tate and his selfish father. Good for you, Tate, I think. Good for you for not giving in this time. For standing up for yourself.

The band plays a second song as the football players form a single line. The crowd claps to the beat of the music. The cheerleaders prance. Rooster Boy in his cat uniform pulls a small, round melon from the pile, then tries to drop-kick it toward the goal. The melon makes a short, sharp arc into the air before falling a few feet away from him and splattering onto the field, shooting red mush everywhere. Laughter erupts as he falls to the ground, grabbing his toe, and I catch myself laughing, too.

Seconds later, the band stops playing and moves to the end of the field. In the press box, the announcer begins introducing the varsity team members, and one by one they leave their line and run to the center of the stadium. "Number seventy-three, Blaine Carter, offensive guard. Number twenty-one, Dustin Blades, fullback. Number thirteen, Cody Riddlesborough, wide receiver. Number ten, Tate Hudson, quarterback."

**Tate Hudson**. I pause, zoom in closer on the quarterback. The man I heard arguing behind the press box called his son "_Tate_." The quarterback's helmet is off, and I recognize the golden hair, the sharp-angled face—though the last time I saw him, he didn't look so unhappy. Tate is the guy I met at the Longhorn Café our first night here. The one who was so nice to me at the salad bar. I snap his photograph, feeling bad for him and disappointed that he didn't stand his ground, after all. But I understand. Lately, I feel powerless over what happens in my own life, too.


	12. Ch12: Semblance

_Later that evening..._

* * *

We're pulling out of the stadium parking lot when Mom says, "Look in my purse, Tansy. The lady who works at the pharmacy gave me your pictures."

"Mary Jane?" I take her purse when she hands it back between the seats.

"She apologized for not calling you earlier so that you could get them. Apparently she got in late yesterday, and she's been busy today. It slipped her mind."

I turn on the overhead light, find the photo envelope, and shuffle through pictures of our house, the land around it, Papa Dan at the windmill, until I find the one I want. The photo is in full color as it should be, since my camera was loaded with color film. Papa Dan peers up into the mulberry tree—not some boy dressed like he's out of the past. And no phantom sits on the tree bough, either.

When we get home, I go straight to my room. Tossing the envelope onto my bed, I head for my closet, slide hangers across the metal bar, trying to push thoughts of the photograph out of my mind so I can decide what to wear to school in the morning. I don't want to call too much attention to myself, though I'm pretty sure there's no escaping it, no matter what I choose. I decide on my newest pair of jeans, a dark purple T-shirt, and my plaid Converse sneakers with the yellow laces. From an overhead shelf, I grab one of Papa Dan's berets. Probably a big mistake, I know, but I can't help myself. I didn't wear a hat tonight, and I felt a little lost without it. _I have to be me_, and wearing my grandfather's hat will be the next best thing to having him with me.

'_I'm wondering if Tate will like it as much as he did the fedora_'. I ask myself, but I couldn't care less. So I quickly brush the thought off and gather Henry's treasures and the envelope of photographs and take them up to the turret.

I think right after what happened after we've moved here, my mind needs a distraction. And it is on _Tate_ that my brain wants to focus on. The guy has good looks. '_Yeah'_ , I thought. '._..and a drop dead gorgeous body too!_' I blushed when I think about his six-pack-abs, well-toned biceps and triceps, and his shard-angled face. His — '_Okay, Tansy that's enough!'_

I walk to the second window, sit on the sill, and place Henry's treasures and the photo envelope beside me. Lifting the crystal, I turn it left then right, hoping the cut glass might catch the overhead light and scatter colored dots across the walls like it did in the cellar. When it doesn't, I set it down and open the pocket watch. The hands are stopped at 12:22, the same time they showed when I first found the watch. Strange. I remember setting the timepiece to the correct time and winding it. I lay the watch on the sill alongside the crystal and the photographs.

And then, my thoughts drift to school, to the Watermelon Run, to Tate and his father. I feel tugged one way and then another. I hate being alone, but why try to make _new_ friends when I'll be leaving soon? Besides, the idea of trying to _fit in_ with the _crankhead_ kids here makes me sick to my stomach. They all seem so tightly bound to one another, I doubt there'd be room for me, even if I wanted to join their _clique_. And, thanks to Hailey and Colin, I don't trust friendships anymore. How can I be so sure who's real and _who isn't_?

I touch Henry's watch and wonder about Cedar Canyon High. What's it like beneath that red tile roof? Behind those old brick walls with their curlicue trim? Beyond the arched marble columns and the heavy double doors? I guess it doesn't matter. I've had a lot of experience being the new girl at school. I know the routine. Pretend not to care what they think. Smile, but only if someone smiles at you first. Blend in the best you can. I hope Tate is in some of my classes. At least he'll be a friendly face. A _sexy_ one, too! (^,~) now that's for sure!

Only a sliver of moon shines tonight—a toenail moon, Papa Dan used to call it. Henry's journal lies in my lap. I run a finger along the leather binding and peer into the night. My breath catches when I see someone standing beside the storm cellar, looking up at the turret window. At me. Pushing to my feet, I press my hands against the window and look closer, but the person moves quickly out of sight. I step to the side of the window, too, take a deep breath and hold it, risk another peek. Shadows have swallowed the person I saw or _think_ I saw.

Trembling, I turn away from the window, sit on the floor, open Henry's journal to the page I've marked with a ribbon, and read….

_Clock is ticking,_

_Trimming, tricking_

_Night to day and day to night_

_Sun is rising,_

_I'm despising_

_Pain ahead, the same old fight_

_Footsteps clicking,_

_Children kicking_

_Stones along the rotting walk_

_Laughter pealing,_

_I am feeling_

_Eyes that follow, words that stalk_

_Leaves are falling,_

_Someone's calling_

_Someone's name: could it be mine?_

_Lies are spreading,_

_I am dreading_

_Empty smiles, the same old lines_

_I am fading,_

_Dissipating,_

_They can't see me, they don't know_

_I am ending_

_Breaking, blending,_

_Soon, so soon now, I will go_

_Clock is ticking,_

_Ticking, tricking_

_Night to day and day to night_

_Moon is rising,_

_No disguising,_

_Darkness brings a whole new light_

Darkness. I turn to look out the window again. Henry once sat here, too; _I sense it. I can feel it_. Watching the night and searching for something…or _someone_…in the shadows. But whoever was it, I don't know.

Outside the window, the insomniac bird begins its nightly serenade, his lonely song more faint than usual since the windows up here are closed. I take out the color snapshots again. On top is the picture of Papa Dan beside the mulberry tree, squinting up through the thick lenses of his glasses at the leafy green branches. Was Henry the phantom image I know I saw in the mulberry tree, even though it doesn't show up in the photo? Or is he the boy I saw peering up at the branches? Was it Henry I saw a moment ago in the shadows outside, staring up at me?

After studying the snapshot a long time, I lay it aside and pick up Henry's pocket watch, close it, trace the engraving on the back with my thumb. I wrap my fingers tightly around it and lift the crystal with my other hand for a closer look. The cut glass catches the overhead light, releasing a shimmering prism of radiance that reflects off the shiny surface of the picture with the same luminous intensity as the sunbeam that touched Papa Dan by the windmill.

The image in the photograph shimmers, shifts, fades to black-and-white. My hand trembles, and I drop the crystal as the scene in the snapshot suddenly broadens and surrounds me…

_…I stand in snow across from the still figure of the guy looking into the tree. His squinting eyes are exactly like my grandfather's, his face like photographs I've seen of Papa Dan as a boy. A sparrow hangs motionless above his head._

Henry's pocket watch presses against my palm. I spread my fingers, and the cover pops open. The hands have moved to 8:15.

**THUMP**, _thump_. **THUMP**, _thump_ **THUMP**, _thump_

_My heartbeat is the only sound I hear. No wind blows, but the air is so cold that goose bumps scatter up my arms. I exhale, and a white puff of breath suspends in front of my face like a tiny, low-hanging cloud. I step closer to the tree where the phantom guy sits as still as a doll upon a gnarled, barren branch, his black button eyes staring down at me. His face is no longer blurred. Startled by his uncanny resemblance to __**Tate Hudson**__, I back up, whirl around, come face-to-face with the teenaged version of Papa Dan. Hysteria spirals up inside of me, twisting like a tornado, swelling. I reach my hand toward my boyish grandfather but stop short of touching his face._

_**Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump,**__thump._

_The house looms in front of me, the paint no longer chipped and peeling. I tilt my head back to look up at the turret, feel dizzy, and close my eyes—_

"_Tansyyyyyyyyyyyy_!" Mom calls from somewhere far off, and I feel myself sucked back into the turret. "Hailey's on my cell phone. She said you haven't been answering yours."

Opening my eyes, I jump to my feet, but my knees feel like putty, so I immediately sink to the floor and prop my elbows on my knees. Shivering uncontrollably, I cover my face with my hands and surrender to a bone-deep chill. "_Ohmygod_, _**OHMYGOD!**_," I whisper, rocking back and forth. What just happened? The air in the room is still, but a cold wind swirls inside me, murmuring an answer that I can't hear.

"Tansy?" Mom yells louder. "_Hailey—_"

"Tell _her_ I'm in the shower!" I howl back, my voice unsteady and raw. Realizing that I'm clutching Henry's watch so tight that my nails are digging into my palm, I splay my fingers to find the cover open, though I know I closed it only moments ago.

_The hands on the face read 8:15._


	13. Ch13: Monday Jitters

**S**o, here comes Monday. On top of having the new-girl jitters, I can't quit thinking about what happened in the turret last night and wondering if I'm going insane. Is this how Papa Dan feels? Scared and confused and out of control? As if his mind is teasing him cruelly?

It's now 7:30am, Mom has dropped me early at school. She said she wants me to leave a good first impression on my first day of school this year. Trying to calm my nerves, I walk beneath the center archway at the entrance to Cedar Canyon High School, down the noisy first floor hallway, and into the office.

_Clock is ticking…trimming…tricking…_

The secretary welcomes me and gives me a locker assignment, a lock, and my class schedule. We go over it together and she tells me where to find my homeroom. I saw the teacher's name, Mrs. Tilby, scrawled in red marker across the front eraser board as soon as I walked in. There are four rows of five desks, a few of them filled. Five lab tables form an L down one side and across the back of the room. I head for the empty table closest to the door, then sit and watch the Cedar Canyon Bobcats file in.

_Footsteps clicking…clicking…clicking…_

I tried to avoid eye contact with everyone as I scan the whole room. On the opposite wall, someone has used black paint to scrawl the words Science, Matter, Energy, Atoms, and Observe in big cursive letters. Colorful construction paper orbs hang from the ceiling. From prior science classes, I know they're called _icosahedrons_ and that each one has twenty sides. The spheres hover above me, as motionless as the sparrow in the frozen world I stepped into last night. That's how it seemed—as if the crystal's radiance transported me into the photograph. _**Crazy? **__I know right!_

The bell rings, everyone dashes out of the hallway. Mrs. Tilby walks over carrying a handful of box loaded with lab equipment. She sets it on my table and says quietly, "I need this space. Would you mind moving to the back?" She motions to a lab table where a tall, thin girl sits writing in a spiral notebook with her head down. Her long, dark hair gleams beneath the fluorescent lights and falls forward to hide her face. All the desks are full now, so I make my way to her table.

Textbooks are piled heavily on the tabletop opposite the girl so I lay my backpack on the floor next to the stool beside her. The moment I sit, she says, "_Hi_." then I turn to smile. My heart _sinks_ when I realize it's Shanna — yes, that's her... _the_ _lady bummer_! The grizzly _girl_ who made fun of me and Papa Dan at Longhorn's; and the same _b*tch_ who throw shades at me on the City Drug! I wonder why she's so salty around me?

_Just what the freakin heck is she doing here in my sacred homeroom_?!（°८_ °´ ）!

I notice that it wasn't me she's been talking to. When I turn around, I saw a guy approaching. Then, I instantly recognize that charming face I ever set eyes on Texas — _Tate Hudson_.

I looked at him and gave him this innocent wide _welcoming_ smile. Yet much to my chagrin, he doesn't even bother to smile back!

*************A-W-K-W-A-R-D************

**OH NO~ I AM ****_SHOOKETH_****!** (੦૮_੦)!

I look on my desk, as quick as I could! I can feel the blood rushing through my face. As if my head is about to explode from embarrassment! Like who else doesn't if they're in my situation? I begin examining my desk trying to look as if am searching for something. Then, I immediately took out a pen and notebook from my backpack and pretend to scribble something.

WHAT THE _HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECK_!

_Why? Wh-what's the matter?!_

WHat... I dunno what'd happened?! He was so nice when we'd visited his Uncle's Café. Was he only being nice to the customers because his Uncle told him so? I DON'T KNooooOW!

THe F*CK I KnoW!

D*MN! Why everyone's been acting so extra lately?! Now I feel like a total nitwit!

Tate sits across us, pushing some stack of books on the lying flat on the table aside to make room for his backpack. "What's up, Shanna?" he asks, but I do feel he's staring at me. Which I find it weird coz, he can just tilt his head a bit if he's really into talking to Shanna, instead of trying to talk and look at her through me. No seriously! That wasn't made up.

I glance up to find his ever brooding blue eyes narrowed, just like the phantom guy's black stare last night. I must have fallen asleep in the turret; or dreaming perhaps. Otherwise how on earth would Tate and the ghost look the same? Maybe I had Tate on my mind after hearing him argue with his father at the Watermelon Run; that's the only explanation that makes sense to me right now.

"Why is it that you haven't been hanging out with anybody much lately," Shanna says, her smile seeping into her voice; like a teasing cat, "May I know the reason?"

Tate shrugs and says flatly. "_No reason._"

Hello? Can you guys quit talking already? The class is ongoing you know?

Shanna's too busy staring at Tate with a _thirsty_ look on her face. I can't blame her. Even though I denied this fact to Mom, Tate might possibly be the hottest guy I've ever seen. Not super perfect ofcourse. Not even like Jason Momoa-_ish_ handsome. He is... how can I put it? _Exemplary; very __appetizing__ Enchanting! Like a young Leonardo DiCaprio with the body of Jacob Black from __**Twilight Movie **_and an Ian Somerhalder-esque skintone.

* * *

As the principal welcomes us to a new school year over the intercom and began reading few announcements, Rooster Boy walks in wearing a diarrhea green high-top sneakers and a T-shirt with some old dead rock star on front. Damp curly hair falls into his eyes. "Sorry," he says, nodding at the teacher. "Couldn't find any clean undies this morning." Everyone laughs except Mrs. Tilby.

"Take a seat, Mr. Jenks," she says.

He heads for the empty stool next to Tate, and I add one more reason why this morning sucks to an already long list. "Hey! Zombie Girl," he whispers, shooting a blast of heat up my neck. Ignoring him, I start writing in my notebook, making an inventory of supplies I need for my darkroom. Anything to make me look busy. Since I'm not cooperating with Rooster Boy's antics, he makes kissing noises at Shanna. She looks up from the note she's writing to give him a _stop-it-or-die_ glare.

The principal talks on and on while Mrs. Tilby unloads lab slides and beakers onto the table up front. Quiet laughter drifts on the air like a breeze. I pretend to concentrate on my list while sneaking peeks at Shanna's note to someone named "_Beeyotch_." Ironic, since I've been thinking that name would suit Shanna perfectly.

Where were you before school? Shanna's note asks. Emily and I looked for you in the parking lot. We were so nervous about walking into the building that we had to sneak an early-morning beer in Em's car to calm our nerves. That surprises me. Not the beer so much but the nervous part. Shanna doesn't seem the type. I wonder if "Beeyotch" is Straight-A Alison. Would she risk her goody-two-shoes image by drinking beer in the morning? Or any other time? She looks too sweet to be real, but I think she has a lot of people get fooled.

Especially the adults in town, if Mary Jane and J. B. are any indication. I might've fallen for her pious act, too, if I hadn't caught her, Shanna, and Rooster Boy making fun of me at the Longhorn Café, if I hadn't heard Shanna's disgusted comments about Papa Dan. And they all laughed at him when we were at City Drug. As bad as Shanna and Rooster Boy are, though, at least they don't pretend to be something they aren't. Alison is like Hailey—a fake. Must be exhausting to put on an act all the time, to try to look perfect.

* * *

Soon, the roll call begin and when it is my turn, Mrs. Tilby looks up from her attendance sheet. And gave me her hard earned attention, "Are you the girl from California?"

"_Yes_," I say, a little bit overwhelmed. And then, everyone in the room darts in my direction. Including Tate. She taps her pencil gently behind her ears. "Well, then, wecome to Texas," she announced. Her smile is like thin, transparent plastic wrap. Pointing the pencil at my head, she adds succinctly, "By the way, we don't allow hats in the classroom."

The heat in my cheeks spreads up to my forehead. Serenaded by snorts, snickers, and whispers, I immediately took the beret off. And I was again reminded of another Henry's poem verse;

_Laughter pealing, I am feeling eyes that follow, words that stalk._

Another bell rings. Stools scrape the floor, voices rise, and a minor stampede ensues as everyone heads for first period. I push away from the table and stand, aware that two sets of eyes are watching me. "Zom-bie... Girl-y," Rooster Boy says in a singsong voice. He extends both arms out in front of him and walks stiff-legged into the hallway.

I dart another glance at Tate. Something in his stare bothers me more than Rooster Boy's teasing. Is distrust what I see in his eyes? Or is he pissed off at me? Either option is totally bizarre, since we hardly know each other. My stomach clenches as I head towards the door. I've dealt with plenty of Rooster Boys in plenty of towns. But I don't know how to deal with someone like Tate Hudson before. Especially his moody blue eyes.

* * *

_Clock is ticking…trimming…tricking…_

In the school's hallways it's easy to disappear. I'm just another body hurrying along, which should relieve me, but it doesn't.

They travel in groups.

I travel alone.

They call out to one another, laugh together.

I move quietly, unknown, unnoticed.

They exist.

I am fading, dissipating; they can't see me; they don't know….

I'm not sure what I want anymore. I hate being watched, laughed at, and whispered about. But maybe it's worse not to be seen at all, passed by as if I'm invisible. Is that what happened when I held Henry's crystal over the photograph? Did I fade from this world, scatter to dust, then reappear in the picture? I_ really don't know..._

_I'm confused..._

First day jitters isn't something I'm used to. I can't stand being alone. Having to walk and feel like alone isn't something I truly need right now. I go to the restroom. Hoping to find a moment of peace and solace away from the social clutter in the corridor. But before I could step in, I heard something... someone... calling out for...

"_HELP!_" says a small voice coming from the wheelie bin storage beside the Lady's room. "Is anyone there?!" it yelled out.

I blink and after a few more distress call; came to full realization that someone has been stuck in the bin storage!

"W-wait, wait up!" I responded. I open the bin storage just in time to see a 14yold girl inside, a sophomore maybe. "Hold on, just a sec!" I extend my arm and she quickly grab it as if her life depends on it.

"Ohmygosh," the girl screeches. "Oh, geez. Darn and double darn!"

After I managed to pull her up, I learn to my surprise that she is in the same year as I am. _A senior High-school student_.

I am 5'6 tall, but this girl in front of me barely reaches my ribcage in height. _So how come?_

Her clothes are too big for her stumpy frame, and she's stepping on the hem of her pants in back. One look at her thin, straight, mouse-brown hair, pulled back at the sides with little-girl barrettes, and I'm sure she cuts her bangs like Mom says my grandmother used to cut hers—with Scotch tape and sewing scissors. They're straight across and blunt, with a jagged spot in the center. The girl drops to her knees on the scuffed outside of the bathroom floors.

The girl stands, swiping at the knees of her baggy pants. "Sorry for the run-in," she says. "I was in a hurry. Don't want to be late to classes on the very first day." her voice reminds me of Velma from Scooby Doo ,"I was on my way to the rest room when the bell rings. When a bunch of goons came and stowed me on the storage bin and closed it!

Before I could answer, Alison and Shanna giggles behind me. "_Stinky_!" Shanna exclaims. "I see you're awake!"

"O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!" the girl shrieks.

Shanna rolls her eyes and snaps, "Such a _whack job._"

Ignoring them, I asks the girl quietly "You okay?" But she just kept her head low.

Someone jab an elbow to shut Shanna up, and speaks "You guys good?" it was Alison, she steps forward, but then I detect a smothered laugh in her voice. A whisper weaves through my mind….

_Lies are spreading, I am dreading empty smiles, the same old lines._

The elbow works! And Shanna's gaze shoots up to mine and her laugh disintegrates. "Let's go, Ali!" Shanna says with a groan. "We're going to be late." They both swivel around and disappears to the corridor.

"Well…I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, _Tansy Piper_, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell."

I'm not about to encourage more conversation by asking how she knows my name. Managing a quick look to where Alison and Shanna once stood, I start for the hallway.

The girl follows me out, her short legs hurrying to match my long strides. "That's Shakespeare, in case you didn't know. William. From Macbeth." When I don't respond, she adds, "I'm Bethyl Ann Pugh. Better known as Stinky Pugh to the natives."

I was stunned for a moment, then give her an inquisitive stare. "And that doesn't bother you? Being made fun of by a bunch of jerks?"

"_I hold the world but as the world_, Tansy Piper, _a stage where every man must play a part. And mine a sad one_." She sighs dramatically and shrugs. "Shakespeare again. _The Merchant of Venice_!"

Bethyl Ann drags her book bag behind her on the floor as she hurries along. "I'm a sophomore this year." She holds up one hand, as if to stop me from interrupting. "I know what you're thinking. I don't look old enough. I bypassed second grade, then sixth."

"That's awesome!"

"I know." She falls behind me, skips once, twice, then she's at my side again. "Enough about me. You are—"

"_Tansy_. I thought you knew my name already?" I asked.

"That's because I knew you're the daughter of famous horror author _Millicent Moon_. Tears of Blood deserved a Bram Stoker Award. The scent of roses makes me shudder everytime I remember. Oh well, that's what I think."

I speed up, before she could start quoting Edgar Allan Poe!

* * *

The next day...

* * *

I leave the campus after school with my camera on. Cedar Canyon is so small that the walk to Main Street and back only takes twenty minutes, and that's walking against the wind and sticking to side streets to avoid mixing with other kids headed for the handful of restaurants in town. Along the way, I snap photos of buildings. Houses. A plant nursery with dead flowers and bushes out front.

I wonder if Henry once went out and did a few sketches of this town. Old and _draking_ as it may seem, this place is _dope_ for nature-lovers. But in some way less comforting for a loner like me.

I walk to City Drug during my lunch break to buy the trash bags and some school supplies. I push through the door. Inside, every stool and booth in the soda-fountain section on the left of the store is full. The place radiates with conversation, each way I look.

And it only makes me feel more out of place...

On the other side of the store, separated from the soda fountain by aisles of merchandise, J. B. stands behind a tall counter filling prescriptions for an elderly couple. When I reach the end of aisle three, J. B. calls out a greeting. The old couple he's waiting on turn around, and I realize they're my neighbors, the Quattlebaums.

"Howdy-do, young lady," the old man says, and his wife nods, her face as grim as ever.

"Hi, Mr. Quattlebaum…Mrs. Quattlebaum."

I turn and search the aisle endcap for the plastic bags as J. B. comes around the prescription counter and hands Mr. Quattlebaum a sack. "So what did you think of the _Watermelon Run_?" he asks me, putting an arm around Mr. Quattlebaum's shoulder.

"It was... err... _unique_?" I say. Locating the bags, I grab a box. J. B. laughs as we all start up front together. "Not something you see in San Francisco, I bet. Your mom was quite the celebrity."

We pause at the register, and Mr. Quattlebaum hands some money to Mary Jane. Shifting his attention to me, he says, "Myra bought a copy of that zombie book. I finished reading the thing last night." He shakes his head. "Good lord, where does your mama come up with that stuff?"

Mary Jane gives him his change, then rings up my purchases while they discuss the strange workings of my mother's mind.

"Now, here comes someone who would probably love to meet your mom, Tansy!" J. B. turns to my side and beams toward the soda fountain; giving someone a little nod.

And that _someone_ is no other than... guess who? **DRUM ROLLS**

My heart almost skip a beat when I see Tate Hudson approaching! J.B. calls him over to join us. Tate looks **EXTREMELY** good in black stretch denim jeans, white button-down shirt, and classic chucks with red detail. He strides a long unhurried yet full of casual elegance walk. It seems very natural to him. And look how on fleek some parts of his hair falls perfectly over his forehead like that of Matt Barr on his workout hair! Search it, go on and you'll see!

Oh~ how I wish I didn't like the way he jams his left hand to his pocket as he pauses beside the pharmacist to greet us. I mean~ _them_. I was nobody to him. I guess. **_SIGH_**

Looking upclose, I saw the details of his undershirt, wait a minute?... He has no undershirt! Which gives us a generous sneak peak of his well-curved six pack ABS! _HOLLY MUPPET_! BLESSED ARE THESE PRECIOUS MOMENTS! (O/O) His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing tan forearms sprinkled with tiny peach fuzz. Oh my gosh, Tate! I swear one of these days you'll be on my menu!

I'm pathetic to notice such things. But I CAN"T HALP IT! (Yes, halp because I almost skip a breath looking at him). But when I see the complete disinterest in his eyes when he looks at me, I shunned every hungry thoughts about him.

"Have you two met?" J. B. asks, glancing between us.

"Sort of," Tate murmurs, capturing my gaze, not daring to look away.

"We have a couple of classes together." I answered. J. B. gives Tate a slightly slap on the back. "Did he happen to mention he's one heck of a _writer_?" Tate cringes which is uncommon to me and looks down at the floor. "Well, you are!" J. B. says, chuckling. "Tate was chosen to go with a group from the Panhandle to a national poetry event last year in Washington, DC. What was that called?"

"The Brave New Voices," Tate murmurs.

"OH~! The International Youth Open Poetry Grand Slam Festival?!" I ask. And he quickly glance up.

Tate's surprised eyes flick to mine again. "Yeah."

I'm impressed. Being chosen to participate in the festival is pretty much of a big deal. "A few kids from my old school went," I mentioned.

Tate made it to the finals," Mary Jane chimes in from behind the register. "That's really great," I say, but Tate only shrugs.

"Tansy's mother is a published writer," Mary Jane says to him.

He nods. "I heard."

"Maybe she could give you a few pointers," she adds.

"She'll have you writin' killer poetry in no time flat," Mr. Quattlebaum interjects, chuckling at his joke. Beside him, Mrs. Quattlebaum surprises me by snickering.

When Tate doesn't comment, J. B. says, "Tansy has a creative streak, too. She's a photographer. Pretty accomplished, too, according to her mom. Cedar Canyon is becoming quite the artistic community all of a sudden."

I see a change in Tate's expression, a faint glimmer of interest. "I just play around with it," I say. "I haven't won an award or anything like that."

"I've seen you around town taking pictures." He stares at me a moment longer, then looks down to the camera hanging at my side.

Encouraged that he's finally speaking to me, I continue, "I want to take some shots of the canyon and that bridge I keep hearing about, but I haven't had time to go out there yet." Hoping he might offer to take me, I add, "I'm not sure where the bridge is, anyway."

"You can walk out there. It's not that far from your house."

So much for subtle hints, I think. T_sk, TSK_!

"Just make sure you stay on the bridge and off the railing," Mr. Quattlebaum warns, shaking his head. "Crazy damn kids climb all over that thing…dangling off the sides and whatnot so's they can scribble graffiti on any bare space they find."

Tate glances up at the wall clock behind Mary Jane and says, "I need to talk to Coach before tomorrow. See you guys later." Ofcourse, that doesn't include me, he completely ignored me again. **SIGH**

The Quattlebaums say good-bye, too, and follow him out the door.

"What do you suppose is bothering that boy?" J. B. asks Mary Jane.

"What do you think? Just 'cause a kid's in high school doesn't mean he doesn't need his mom." Mary Jane glances at me, adding, "She moved away over the summer."

J. B. shakes his head. "The kids are always the hardest hit when a marriage splits up." He sends me an apologetic smile and sighs. "Tate's usually such a friendly kid. I'm sure the way he acted toward you wasn't anything personal."

I cross my arms. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

I run outside after my purchase and try to search for Tate on the streets. Hoping that we could walk together or something. But I don't see him anywhere. Something nags at me, and it takes me a minute to realize what it is.

Not only does Tate look like the phantom in the tree—the boy I think is Henry, at least in my dreams—

_they both write poetry_.

* * *

_Later that evening..._

* * *

After dinner, I sit in the turret on the purple velvet chair. The trash bags I bought at City Drug cover the windowpanes to keep out daylight during the day, so as not to disturb the developing process. No chance of that now, anyway, since it's dark outside. I haven't been up here at night since I dreamed the crystal's beam carried me into the photograph, and I'm so antsy I can't sit still. I need to prove to myself that what I experienced was only a dream. I refuse to accept that I might gone _delulu_, but that's prolly it.

A soft glow cast off by the lamp brightens the tarnished gold of Henry's pocket watch, open on the round table, stopped again at 12:22. I look at the black-and-white photos I developed earlier, spread out on the floor at my feet, and rub my thumb across the crystal teardrop.

The pictures I took at the Watermelon Run are of cheerleaders jumping, Rooster Boy strutting on the sidelines in his bobcat suit, family members clapping and cheering in the stands as the football jocks rush onto the field. I look at the photo of Tate, the tense clench of his jaw, his beautiful yet sad-looking eyes.

Setting that photo aside, I look at the one of Bethyl Ann feeding a homeless dog she named Hamlet.

She looks so happy, like life could not be better. I scan the image of the painter in town arguing with his client from the top of a ladder, the woman and toddler washing the dog in their yard, the line of little kids dancing behind Mary Jane, who is as big as the cow Sheriff Ray Don leads down Main Street in another photo.

I puff out my cheeks. How does the camera see things that I miss? All these people seem different in the pictures than they are in person. Not ominous at all. So why can't I give them a chance? Why am I so afraid?

Wait a minute! WHAT'S THIS? (O_O)

I pause on the next picture, the one I shot of Alison exhaling cigarette smoke, then glance at a second shot of her coughing as a man — older than her, College thug I guess— laughing hysterically.

Straight-A Alison? Doing the C-thing in a remote section of the town with a mobster? OH-MY-BREAKING NEWS!

I heard a birdsong twitters outside, I jump and glance at the rattling window, amazed any bird would be out of its nest on this blustery night. The bird has been silent lately. The last time I heard it sing was the night I had that freaky experience with the crystal. Or dreamed it.

_Do it, I think. Or you'll never know._ I thought to myself.

My hand shakes as I pull the photograph from the envelope and lay it in my lap. I reach for Henry's pocket watch and close my fingers tightly around it. Just as before, I tilt the crystal until it catches the lamplight. Just as before, a shimmering beam extends toward the fading image on the picture…expands…surrounds me.

Suddenly I'm back in the frozen, black-and-white world of the photograph, standing beside my young grandfather, who is as still as a mannequin. The guy who resembles Tate stares down at us from where he sits above in the mulberry tree's barren branches.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

A bell clangs, shattering my nerves and the silence. I tell myself to turn toward the Quattlebaum farmhouse, but I'm afraid. I know the man is out there, bundled up in warm clothes, a shovel in his hands. Snow. That's what he shovels; I know that now, too. There's a black dog…a ball…white smoke drifting from the man's mouth when he removes his gloves and blows on his fingers. No, not smoke…the cloud his breath makes when it hits the air. Because it's winter and freezing outside. Everything is clear to me now—

"Tansy?"

Air moves around me in ripples…lake water touched by a breeze.

"Do you want to watch a movie with us?"

The air settles as I'm pulled back to the velvet chair by my mother's voice. The room is warm. I shiver. I'm afraid to answer Mom, afraid to open my eyes. Terrified of what I might see.

She knocks at the door. "Hey! Are you okay in there?"

"Just a second," I call, my throat as scratchy as if I'd swallowed sand.

I blink and look down at the photograph in my lap. Papa Dan—old, feeble, and in vivid Kodak color—squints up at tree branches heavy with leaves, like he did as a frozen boy in the surreal world I just left. The branches, though, were bare in that world, and the tree was smaller. In the dead grass at his feet, something glimmers, an object I am sure was not in the picture before. I look closer, and feel a shifting take place inside me.

The item is round and gold, the size of a gingersnap cookie.

I lower my gaze to my lap and open my hand.

...

_Henry's pocket watch is gone..._


	14. Ch14: Indignation

**AUTHOR'S CORNER:**

Hola~! How are you guys been doing? As you know; new week means new chapters! YEEEHAAAAA~! (^—^)

I'm sure you have more questions than answer from the previous chapters, so BUCKLE UP! Today is the day... where our dear Tansy finally meets Henry (or should I say his ghost? Idk),!

Are you guys ready?

...and BRACE YOURSELVES because this would be one heck of a ride! —a pretty looooooong chapter perhaps. But I promise you guys, things would get more exciting...

(~ , *)

* * *

_Lunch period at school..._

* * *

_Leaves are falling, someone's calling someone's name: could it be mine?_

Lunch at school with Bethyl Ann— isn't exactly what I need. But it'll be worth it if I find out more about Henry. And maybe something about Papa Dan's past, too.

"Is it spooky living in the Peterson house?" Bethyl Ann asks.

"Sometimes. In a way I like it, though."

She leans closer, a secretive smile on her face. "I went there a few times," she says quietly. "Mrs. Quattlebaum had gallbladder surgery a few weeks before you moved here. Mom and I would take casseroles to her and Mr. Quattlebaum, and while they visited, I walked over to your house. It was empty then."

"You went inside?"

Her smile falls and she shakes her head quickly, like she's afraid I'll get her into trouble. "No, just outside, but that was enough." She folds the paper sack into a square, avoiding my gaze. "No wonder everyone says it's haunted."

"Why do you say that?" I ask too quickly, leaning toward Bethyl Ann. "Did you see or hear something?" Henry's rosewood box comes to mind, and before she can answer me, I ask, "Did you find something?"

Eyeing me suspiciously, she asks, "Did you? Is that why you're so overwrought?"

I lean back, embarrassed. "I'm not overwrought. And that sounds like a word my mother would use."

She lifts her chin. "You didn't answer my question."

I shrug. "I've heard a few strange noises at night. It's an old creaky house, and the wind blows constantly."

Bethyl Ann keeps staring at me with that skeptical look on her face. I can't tell if she knows I'm keeping something from her, or if she's the one who's keeping something from me. She never answered my question, either.

She sits back and flattens the paper sack between her knees. "I wish I'd been around when Henry Peterson was alive," she says. "He's probably the most intriguing person who ever lived in this two-horse town."

"Intriguing?" I squint at her. "How?"

"Sometimes he hurt himself on purpose."

"What do you mean?"

She lifts a shoulder. "People say he'd get mad at his parents or somebody else and hurt himself out of spite. I've read articles about him in the library archives."

Disturbed by the rumor, I ask, "Will you show the articles to me?"

"Sure. We could walk to the library after school. I usually go see Mama, anyway." When I cast her an inquisitive look, she adds "My mom's the local Librarian, and I archive the town newspaper for her." She mimed a key which suggests she has an Official access to the town's file records.

I kindly request her... "Can we go and check it then?"

* * *

_At the Library..._

* * *

I have the weirdest sense that a puzzle piece is about to unfold. Pieces, actually, not just one. The bird. The man and dog I've seen at the Quattlebaums' farm. The scene I stepped into last night. The artifacts from the cellar. The lost watch and how it's always set to 12:22. Henry's resemblance to Tate. All clues…but to what?

And the _scene_. My Gosh, how can I forget about that scene? The one I took from the Mulberry Tree. The one that my viewfinder almost capture. Where I saw the image of my grandfather, perfectly frozen in time as a blossoming teenage boy and another one — my age— although his image a bit _fuzzy_, I have a distinct feeling that he's staring at me.

In books about photography, I've read the term _parallax_, but I didn't understand the meaning until now. Parallax refers to a difference in what the photographer sees through the viewfinder and what shows up on the film once the picture is shot. I capture the scene in front of me, yet part of me was certain that nothing will appear in the actual picture. And when the negatives developed, I therefore conclude.

"Ohmygosh! Listen to this!" Bethyl Ann touches the microfiche screen.

Expecting her to recount the boring details of yet another of Mr. and Mrs. Peterson's trips "abroad," I continue looking through a book about birds I found on the library's nonfiction aisle. I scan the pages for a picture of the bird I saw in the hedge. My two hours with Bethyl Ann at the tiny old house that serves as Cedar Canyon's library have been a total waste. I can't help wondering if her claims of finding articles about Henry were a scheme to get me to hang out with her. We haven't run across a single one.

Maybe we should go to the newspaper office," I say absently, flipping through the pages of colorful bird photos. "I bet they have archives of old papers, too."

"Look." Beth nudges me with an elbow.

"Just tell me what it says."

"It's about a Christmas party at the Peterson place. I didn't find this one before."

I turn another page in the bird book, pause, and announce, "This is it!" Smiling, I press my finger against a photo of a small bird with pale brown wings and a brownish red tail. "My insomniac bird is a nightingale." I clear my throat and read, "The sun-shy nightingale is one of only a few bird species that sing primarily at night. Known for its melancholy serenades sung in low, haunting whistles and refrains, the nightingale has been a frequent subject of mythologists, poets, and songwriters throughout time."

"Oh~ _sorry, Charlie_. I hate to break this to you, but..." Bethyl Ann gives the page a dismissive glance. "Nightingales don't exist in North America, only England. Unless your bird swam the Atlantic, it's could've be something else!" she gives me an accusing look.

I read further into the text and sigh. "You're right. But I swear this is the bird I saw!" _Or did I? Maybe that was a figment of my imagination, too_.

Bethyl Ann blinks at me and sniffs. "As I was saying…" She returns her attention to the microfiche. "The Petersons were having a Christmas party and the ten-foot blue spruce tree in their parlor went up in flames."

"When?" I close the book and lay it in my lap.

"Henry was seventeen. A reporter interviewed one of the guests, and he said everyone was in the parlor for the tree lighting while Henry played his violin for them." Squinting at the screen, she twirls a strand of hair around her index finger and continues, "When Mr. Peterson plugged the tree in, it exploded. Everyone except Henry screamed and got the hell out of Dodge. He kept playing 'Silent Night' as if nothing had happened."

I laugh. "The paper says they got the hell out of Dodge?"

"No, I said that, smarty-pants. The paper said they ran." She smirks at me. "Henry did it, of course."

"Did what? Blew up the tree?"

"_U-HUH_?!"

"But why would Henry blow up his parents' tree?"

"Sheer madness? or..." Bethyl Ann shrugs. "Maybe he wanted to get their attention. Maybe he despises them and their _Old Money_ antics? Who knows?"

"As if he was a spoiled rich kid. Who could do anything he wants without merit?"

"Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind," she says.

I decide it's a waste of time to try to silence her Shakespearean tongue. The quotes are so part of Bethyl Ann's persona, I doubt she could ever speak without them.

"Here's another one." She leans closer to the screen and reads, "William and Leonore Peterson were summoned home and had to cut their business trip shortly to Chicago when Henry involved in a gunshot incident which he acquired in foot while cleaning a hunting rifle in the turret of their mansion east of town. Though recorded as an accident, Miss Adeline Ivy, the Petersons' housekeeper, suggested the wound was self-inflicted. Miss Ivy resigned from her job and left Cedar Canyon a few months after the interview." Bethyl Ann lifts her wide-eyed gaze to mine. "WHOA! See? I told you he hurt himself _on purpose_."

I bit my lower lip. Uneasiness took over me and grips on my chest. If the rumors were true, why was Henry so disturbed? I get pretty unhappy sometimes. _Depressed_, maybe. But I can't imagine shooting myself in the foot or anywhere else.

I recall the pale face of the guy in the tree, his black marble gaze staring down at me. He's Henry. I don't know why I'm so sure of it, but I am. I wish I was as certain of everything else—that I had answers to all the questions crowding my mind. Does he want something from me? Why is he upsetting Papa Dan? And what's up with his resemblance to Tate? Does Tate have something to do with all of this?

Speaking about Tate — I've been thinking about him _nonstop_, watching for him at school, wondering why he hated my guts and what could possibly be the reason behind, aside from being _broflake_. Every time our eyes meet, he looks away. Or his face flushes bright red, like he's angry with me or something! BUT WHAT FOR?

In the hallways, I've seen him halfway backswing to avoid passing me. Just yesterday, he turned midway to the opposite hall, as if I am infected by a stupid plague that might stain him and his crazy sexy abs!

I conjured him into that photograph, superimposed his likeness over that of the tree. I turned Tate into our resident ghost. A hot, brooding monochrome figment of my strong imagination.

I take off my cap and fan my face with it, assuring myself the reason I'm so feeling warm has nothing to do with Tate Hudson at all. The library doesn't even have central air! What is this a purgatory or something?!

I watch Bethyl Ann study the screen, the corners of her mouth curled up in that sly Mona Lisa smile of hers. For a second, I wonder if she's hiding something from me, if she knows more than she's willing to tell. Sighing, I sit back. That's silly; what reason would she have to keep information about Henry from me? What I should be wondering is: What's wrong with me? How can I even consider that any of this might be real? The guy in the tree—the entire episode, in fact—was nothing more than a daydream or an illusion, a latent image created by exposure to a bright reflection. A distorted photograph.

Oh, geez…are you okay?" Bethyl Ann presses her palm to my forehead just as her mother appears at our table. "You're burning up. Isn't she red as a beet, Mama?"

If I didn't know better, I would think Mrs. Pugh is Bethyl Ann's grandmother instead of her mom. She wears her gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and her face is a roadmap of wrinkles. "You do look a bit flushed, Tansy," she says. "Are you feverish?"

"No, but I'm a little dizzy."

"Looking at microfiche makes some folks a bit seasick, believe it or not." Mrs. Pugh blinks rapidly, her eyes concerned behind her giant wire-framed glasses.

"It might just be because I didn't eat breakfast," I say. Or _sleep last night_.

"We have leftovers at home, Bethyl Ann," she says. "Cold meat loaf and pasta salad with extra mayo, just like you like it. Why don't you girls go make yourself a plate?"

I wanna say that I don't eat anything that once had eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but her hopeful expression stops me, and I feel a pinch of guilt for ever thinking that someone as young and innocent as Bethyl Ann might be scheming me. "Okay. We'll go to your house." Lifting the bird book from my lap, I add, "I want to check this out first, okay?"

"Of course." Mrs. Pugh takes the book from me. "I'll make you a library card."

Bethyl Ann and I follow her mother to a desk up front. The truth is, I'm really not all that hungry, and even if I was, I would never eat meat loaf. The thought of mayonnaise-covered pasta makes me nauseous, too. But I'll force down the noodles. Bethyl Ann has been helpful, and I should be nice to her. She's the most normal thing in my life right now.

She yawns noisily, then yawns again —quieter this time— then leans close to me and whispers, "Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale. Shakespeare, in case you're wondering. King John. Act three, scene four."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Bethyl Ann, normal? If I'm starting to believe that, I really do need an appointment to have my head examined.

* * *

It was passed 3'oclock in the afternoon. I decided to go see the bridge myself to pass time, and to take a breather after all I've learned about Henry so far. We now have an internet service, but not as strong as it were back in San Francisco. Besides, am taking a time off the Social Media. Like, I'm doing this Social Media Detox practice, if you ever heard such thing. Because I am obviously avoiding fake-people who fills up my friend's list and that...includes..._HAILEEEYYYY FREMONT_!

Anyways, imma trying to have a good mood here so... let's just skipped them once and for all.

I strike out toward the part of the canyon that borders our property. I'm not sure why I've waited so long to go to the bridge. Maybe because I have mixed feelings about seeing the place where Henry died. A part of me is curious, but another part doesn't want to imagine him taking the plunge, and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to wipe that image from my mind once I've been there.

I snap shots while I walk. A twisted mesquite tree. A jutting rock formation. A trio of tumbleweeds scampering across the field. After a few minutes, I rest beneath a small grove of cottonwood trees beside a boulder that's shaped like a bench. The rock formation is so unusual that I squat to get a shot of it, positioning the camera in front of my face.

Panic slams into me. I freeze.

Tate's look-alike lies stretched out along the smooth rock, a faded gray guy in a colorless world. His hands are laced behind his head, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. A violin lies across his lap. He stares beyond me with narrowed eyes, his face molded into a crooked half smile.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I stumble backward and land on my butt, my hat flying off my head, the camera strap tugging at the back of my neck as it falls. I pick up the camera, look again, and gasp. "Who are you?"

He stays as still as the rock—as if he's a part of it.

"Are you Henry?" I whisper, but of course he doesn't answer, doesn't blink. His hair remains unruffled by the gusty breeze that tousles mine.

A voice inside my head tells me to run as fast as I can and not look back. But I'm paralyzed by the fear that, if I move, he'll reach out and grab me. I have to force myself to lift my hand to take the picture. Once it's shot, I grab my hat, put it on, and scoot backward, until I'm far enough from the rock that I feel safe to stand again. The camera bangs against my hip as I run, but I don't stop. My lungs feel like they're about to pop as I sprint across the field.

I hit a trail that weaves through another sparse grove of trees. The trail turns sharply at the far side of the grove, and ahead steel girders curve up into the sky like the arched skeletal spine of a giant centipede. The sight stops me short. Panting, I glance back, afraid I'll see the guy from the bench rock coming after me, relieved when I find that I've outrun my delusion, at least for the moment.

I turn around, lean forward at the waist, plant my hands on my thighs, and try to calm down. The bridge looms ahead of me. It's a spectacular sight. Larger than I ever imagined, tarnished and daunting and eerie…like Henry. Maybe the bridge absorbed Henry's essence when he fell from its side. I can't wait to capture the image on film, but when I look through the camera lens, my breath catches in my throat. He's there—the guy from the bench rock. Henry. Standing at the far end of the structure, bent over the railing, staring down into the craggy canyon below. My stomach folds in on itself when he steps up onto the railing's lowest rung.

_No! Don't jump!_

I grip the camera so tightly my knuckles ache. But as fast as the thought flashes through my mind, another one follows. He moved. I zoom in, and just as I realize the guy on the bridge isn't Henry but _Tate_, — he steps down and starts walking across the bridge toward the trail, looking down at his feet. I lower the camera and turn to go, anxious to escape before he sees me.

But before I could take few more steps down the trail, I stop. Whatever Tate's been up against me, am _SICK_ of it! Whatever _it_ is. I turn around, ready to face him —once and for all—to come right out, confront and ask what I did to tick the heck out of him off!

When he sees me walking toward him, he pauses a few seconds before he continues my way. Coward, I think, then wait until he's only a few steps away before calling, "Is there something you want?"

"No, why?" He pauses. "I was just heading home."

I shrug. "Then, why are you acting like an A**-hole?!"

He flinched then say, "Nope. I'm good." and walks past me.

I sigh loudly, then murmur, "_JERK_!"

Tate stops walking, turns, and narrows his gaze on me. "I'm sorry, do you call me a jerk?"

No, no way I'll call a hot-dude a jerk. No. No, no, no NO _HECK_ N_OOOO_! WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? WHY DID I SAY THAT? (O_O ")

Heat fills my throat. I didn't mean for him to hear me, and at first my polite instincts insist that I apologize then slink away. But then my pride kicks in. Yeah~ Like a Bruce Lee kick! Why should I apologize? He has been acting like a jerk. So I clenched my fist and say out loud...

"No, you're an _IDIOT_!" I shout. "**A SORE LOSER**! And I guess you couldn't care less, right?"

"What people think of me is none of my business."

"Wow. You're a tough guy, too."

"Maybe I am. So what?"

"Well, I'm not impressed." I turn my back on him and stomp off down the trail toward the bridge. Then **RUN**, as fast as I could!

Less than a minute goes by. And here I found myself to the other side of the bridge. I dock myself from behind a tree, hoping when Tate catches up he won't see me. But a few seconds had passed, no Tate shows up, so I thought I lost him.

* * *

The sun shines brightly before its impending set. It's 4:04 in my digital wrist watch. It just occurred to me that I've missed the afternoon class by going to the Library with Bethyl Ann and by heading straight to the canyon.

OH SHOCKS! I'm DEAD AF! (O,O )! I am a roast chicken should Mom find out that I skipped class! Oh no, Mrs. Tilby would probably place me in detention after school tomorrow! _Que Horror_! —an old Spanish word for _Scary_. My great-grandmother, Papa Dan's mom to be precise, is Half-French-Half-Spanish. That's why we both have her Hazel green eyes. But anyway — it doesn't matter. Too many segues...

I look across the mountain top and see how beautiful and golden the sun is. As if the two mountain is it's throne and she is the Queen. I step a little closer to the cliff protruding on the side of the bridge, parallel to the tree I went for hiding.

I see it wasn't as deep compare to the other side, where Henry allegedly fell. But still as quite dangerous should you miss a step. So I quickly move my feet away from the edge and wend backwards. When I am on a safe distance, I began dancing Odette — the White Swan— variation. First I began with Attitude Derrière —a position on one leg with the other lifted in back. Then a quick single Arabesque — a position of the body, in profile, supporting on one leg. Then the rest of the variations.

I never felt free as I were when dancing. That's why I love it. _I missed it_. I always have this passion for ballet since I was 4year old. Such a tender age, if you may ask. But that's when the bones are forming, beginning to take mold. Which is why it is so important to attend Ballet classes at such a young age. And develop a flexible movement early on.

I used to dance Swan Lake as part of our repertoire in Ballet Academy when we're still living in LA. I was 7 at that time. From then on, I fell in love with the White Swan character. So graceful yet cheerful. So young, fresh and pure. Everyone loves my performance. And _that_ led me to many opportunities in Ballet.

I remember the musical score. Can still feel the wooden plank floor bracing my feet as I grace back and forth the stage with each pointe steps I make. The howling sound of applaud whenever I did a Jeté and a flawless twirl in _pax de deux_.

I missed it all. Gosh, _I MISS IT_!

I wanna go back, to that glorious moment where I can go about and dance!

Before I knew it, my left toe hit something hard on the ground which triggers my long-healed injury. And I suddenly went off balance... I almost stumble on the bed rock, when someone catches me preventing me from falling...

_It was Tate._

* * *

I can't believe my eyes. I fall from Tate Hudson. _LITERALLY_!

I fall on top of him. _I LANDED ON HIM!_

And I was like (O/-/o) flushing all over the face!

We locked our eyes on each other for a loooooooong seconds, until he asks "Are you okay?"

"No." I flustered. "I mean. N-no okay... I mean yeah. Yyy-yes. I-I-I'm fine. I-I-I-I'm good."

"Uhm..."

"Uhm..." I hummed back.

"_Uhm_. Can you get off me?"

"Oh! OH!" SHOCKS! I forgot I was pinning him down. OH MY! I swear its all unintentional! (~_^)

"I-I'm SO SORRY!" I quickly get up. "Are you ok—"

Before I could finish my sentence, my left foot ache AF which causes me get off-balance but Tate hurries up and catches me with open arms.

OMG! I can't help falling on Tate... _so to speak_.

I jerk my head up and see Tate's smile broadly. As if he's watching a funny skit from Saturday Night Live "Why d'you keep on falling? Is there anything wrong with your feet?" He tries to suppress his chuckle.

"My left toe, actually." I clarify him. "I... I sustained an injury two years ago from a car accident. So..."

"Oh." He said looking bummed. "I-I'm sorry. Does it hurt now?" "Can you stand?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I can stand on my own." I don't know why I feel shy with him looking concerned all of a sudden.

"Are you sure?" He let go of my shoulders which he cupped around with his hands to keep me from falling flat.

*******A LOUD SILENCE*******

After a long awkward moment that feels like ten, we both stare down at our shoes, silent. Then Tate clears his throat, _breaking the ice_ and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be _mean_ to you, its just that..." he jams his hands into his pockets, a sheepish look on his face. "I'm in a bad mood sometimes."

"Yeah I notice that." I said sarcastically. He smiles, then asks succinctly "Is this your first time _here_?"

"_U-huh_." I glance toward the canyon then, tilt my head down. Trying to avoid his eyes. His _enigmatic_ blue eyes.

"Can we start over?"

My eyes lift to his the moment he said this.

He gestures toward the bridge over the canyon. "So, what do you think? Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's amazing. I didn't expect it to be so—" I can't find the right word to describe the awesome sight of the towering structure.

"I know," he says. "I've tried a million times to write about it—you know, do it justice, but I can never explain how incredible it is."

My _indignation_ begins to melt like butter in a microwave. How can someone who's so frustrating and rude most of the time also be so tuned in to what I'm thinking? I doubt many guys would see the beauty in a bridge, much less feel it deserved to be portrayed in a flattering way. Still, I'm not going to let down my guard. I don't completely trust this warmer side of Tate. I've experienced it once before and learned the hard way how swiftly he switch on from _hot to cold_.

"Why don't you try hard until you get what you wanted?" I say. "Believe me, I know as well as anyone how insecure writers can be. When my mom's in the middle of whatever book she's working on, she's always convinced it's total crap and her career is ruined. Then she turns it in and her editor loves it or she gets a good review or a ton of fan letters and she struts around like she's the most talented writer on the planet. That lasts until she starts the next book, and then it's the same routine all over again." I roll my eyes. "She can be a real drama queen." Embarrassed by my nervous speech, I look down at my shoes again.

Tate laughs. "In my case, though, what I'm working on is crap."

I glance up and make a face. "See? You're no more secure than my mother."

Tate falls silent. He pulls his hands from his pockets and taps his fingers against his thighs. "You were right, by the way. _I HAVE been a jerk_."

Confused by his sudden admission, I clarify "No. You're an _a**hole_" "...and am not kidding."

"I know." He says, after a wry smile skipped his lips. "I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes. What happened a second ago—I was just in a bad mood. It wasn't anything you did."

"That doesn't explain the way you've acted toward me every other day since I started school here." then I stated, "...thought you're being a _jackass._"

He look abashed, then bow his head down a bit and say, "I guess I haven't made things any easier on you—being in a new place, I mean. Moving so much must suck."

"Yeah. well, I can tell you tend to be obnoxious sometimes. No problem. I can manage."

"Really?"

"No." We both cracked up.

Another stretch of awkward silence gaffles between us. And Tate clears his throat again...

"_So_.Why did you move here in the first place?"

For some reason, anger jabs at me again. "Excuse me for upsetting you by being here."

"Is that what you think?" He gaffed. "No, I _just_ want to know. Please don't get me wrong."

"Well, you've acted like you despise me ever since you found out I wasn't just some girl passing through town. Someone you can _flirt with_ at your uncle's café then forget about right after,"

He lowers his head, then looks up at me slowly, moving only his eyes. "I don't _despise_ you, technically speaking. It's just that… _some stuff_ happened, and I guess I... I sort of _took it out_ on you,"

"Oh fair point. Like _that_ makes sense. What stuff? What did I have to do with it?" I cross my arms, casting him a critical look.

"Nothing. It's my dad, mostly. He's been on my case about a lot of things."

"Football, you mean."

"How did you know that?"

"I heard you two arguing behind the press box the night of the Watermelon Run."

Before he almost scowl, I add succinctly, "Look, ah... I-I was at the top of the bleachers taking pictures and then you were just _there_. I couldn't help overhearing!" I justified nervously.

He gave me a dismissive stare, "It doesn't matter. Dad is super imposing when it comes to _me-playing-football_." "I don't know. His fervid fascination over this subject coaxes me to sign for a College Football Scholarship."

"Well, if you'd ask me, that sounds cool. Why, you don't want to?"

"I don't care about football. I never have to begin with."

"Then why do you play anyway?"

"It's pretty much of a big deal to him."

If dad was still here, would pleasing him be so important to me that I would do something I hated just to make him happy?

Now I know the reason behind his erratic behavior. This whole crazy football stuff + his own family dilemma gets into his head so much so that it greatly affect his rational thinking and caused him mood-swings. Pity gushes through me, as I think of Mary Jane and J.B blabbing the topic of Tate's mom leaving earlier at the City Drug, so I decide not to bring up the subject. "I've read an article about how you won the game single-handedly on the _Melon Run_ last time on the town's editorial..."

"It's Watermelon." He snorted. then said sharply "I don't want to talk about football," "I just wanted to apologize and say that I hope we can be. You know…maybe _we_ can be friends?"

I hope he can't tell how ecstatic I am when he asked me that. But since he deserves to sweat a little, I make him wait for my answer. I suppose I'm feeling _cantankerous_, as Papa Dan used to say.

"_Well?_" he asks. "Any chance of that?" Tate's lighthearted tone of voice and the teasing glint in his eyes don't hide his discomfort. Which only proves he's not used to apologizing for anything.

"Uhm... Well, _that_ depends," I finally tell him. "Will you let me read something you wrote?"

"I don't know…" Tate's brows tug together. "I'll think about it."

"Then forget the whole thing— we be friends or what?" I also shoot him a glint of a teasing look.

"It's embarrassing." He kicks a rock and it skips across the trail. Slanting me a look, he says, "_I might_, if you'll let me see some of your photos."

"We'll see that." A smile twitches my lips. "...only if you'd behave yourself and act nice for a change, maybe?"

"I'll try. It'll be hard, though."

"I can tell it's not in your nature."

We grin at each other, then he offers me his hand. "Truce?"

"Truce," I say, and we shake.

And we walk along the trail side by side as he invite me for a brief tour around the Great Canyon, and I can hardly believe how our relationship has gone from agonizing to awesome in less than an hour. If only the same thing could happen with everything else in my life.

* * *

_After dinner..._

* * *

I didn't tell Mom that I forgot about school and spent most of my time at the Library and nature observing with Tate, the whole afternoon. She will be **F.U.R.I.O.U.S**!

So I head straight to the turret —where my darkroom is— and take a look at the photos I developed earlier, now hanging on the drying rack.

My nerves stretch tight as I sit in the velvet chair by the window. I study the items on the round table: the envelope of photos from City Drug, the teardrop crystal, Henry's journal. Beneath my palm the leather is smooth in places, bumpy in others.

_ A poet is a nightingale…_

I remember reading that snippet from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. But what does my nightingale poet want to say to me tonight? I'm not sure I want to know. The moment I found the journal, I felt my sanity slipping away like sand through my fingers. Maybe I shouldn't read Henry's poems anymore.

I slide the top photograph from the envelope, the one of Papa Dan squinting up into the mulberry tree. Henry's pocket watch still lies on the ground at his feet. Is that what my grandfather searched for all morning? Mom told me after I got home that Papa Dan spent most of the day outside, lurking at the Mulberry Tree as if he's finding something.

The nightingale's song plays through my mind, so pretty it brings fresh tears to my eyes and a longing for something that I can't name.

_…his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened…_

The crystal captures the lamp's glow and winks at me. I want my grandfather back. Maybe that possibility exists, maybe not. But I'll never know unless I take the chance.

Aiming the teardrop at the picture, I turn it slightly until a prism of light stretches between the two items. The prism shimmers and surrounds me. The image in the photograph widens. And there again...

_ I slip through._

* * *

_"Henry! I've found your watch! I've found it here!" a young man whom I easily identified as my grandfather stood waiting for someone to go down from a tree branch. "I hope it didn't break."_

_"Who cares?" said Henry. The boy from the Mulberry tree. He sits there staring at a long distance. Whatever it is, nobody knows. He glance back to the boy in the ground — my grandfather, Daniel. His bestfriend— "Keep it!" he urged, almost like a command._

_I can see his face clearly. And for instance, it gives me a full —High Definition— glimpse, of Tate Hudson's visual. Its as if they were born as identical twins! Only 7 long generations apart. If am doing math right._

_"I can't take your watch."_

_"You're not taking it. It's my gift. That watch might be worth a lot of money someday. If you don't want to carry it, store it in one of those fancy little boxes you make." Henry always has this commanding tone on him. Perhaps because of his Rick Kid upbringing. But the way he speak to young Daniel, has a tone of deep sarcasm._

_"I never keep them," Daniel says. "I give them away."_

_"You really should make one for yourself," I said. Yet the words I had spoken isn't exactly coming from me. But to someone else..._

_Its as if I am inhabiting another person's body. Much like Stephanie Meyer's novel — The Host._

_But I kind of pre-sensed or pre-determined the words she is about to spoke or the gestures and nuisances she's about to take. As if I already have it predicted, or anticipated._

_Like I am a part of her, and she is to me. I know everything she knows, though she hardly known mine; and feel her emotions; and read her thoughts as if it was my own._

_We're two souls combine, inside one body,—Isabel and I. But she's the one in control; I can only follow along, listening and watching as if I'm a passenger._

_Her name is Isabelle. I knew it right before her friends call out for her. And she is bestfriends with both my future grandfather and Henry._

_The of the phantom I first saw through the viewfinder along with the boy beneath it have come alive. They move and talk like actors in a black-and-white movie. And it seems right, the most natural thing in the world!_

_Daniel grins at me/her. Then he holds out the glossy-gold timepiece toward Henry who is now scooting down the tree branch._

_"Your folks gave it to you for your birthday," he objected. "It must've cost 'em a pretty penny."_

_"They have plenty more money than anyone from this god-forsaken town, Daniel," Henry scoffs. "I don't want anything from them. So keep it, or throw it away." Again his usual snappish tone._

_Isabel's heart aches for him. She wonders how his parents can be so cruel. They leave him alone too much. Mrs. Peterson always accompanies Mr. Peterson on his business trips, and they take more vacations than anyone she knows, even during the months when Henry is in school and can't join them. Isabel's folks never leave her alone._

_"I'm sure they love you," she says to him, pulling her coat more snugly around her. Her fingers are numb inside her mittens as she shades her eyes against the sun's white glare and gazes into the tree branches at Henry. "You must miss them. It has to be just awful staying out here with that moody Miss Ivy all the time. I thought she resigned?"_

_"After I fired bullet on my foot, you mean?" He guffaws. "Whatever Father wants, He will get. And in just a snap of his opulent finger, he bribed the old hag back."_

_Daniel looks at Henry suspiciously. "You didn't really shoot yourself on purpose like everyone says."_

_"Didn't I?" Henry cocks a brow._

_Terrified, I —as Isabel— scolds him aloud, "Knock it off, Henry!" "The way you talk, it's no wonder people—" She catches herself._

_"Think I'm insane?" Henry says, feigning a wicked laugh. "Don't look so grim, Isabel. I don't mind being the town's Mad Hatter. In fact, I like that!"_

_A loud tune of a bell diverts Isabel's attention to the farmhouse across the way—the Quattlebaums' farmhouse. No, not yet. Not from this time. The farm belongs to Isabel's family, first and foremost; her father is the farmer I've seen through my camera lens in my own world—somehow I know that._

_He's out there now, shoveling snow in the yard. He props the shovel against his body to play fetch with their Labrador retriever, Kip. Isabel giggles as Kip runs toward the barn to retrieve the ball. "I think I better go." She informs the two gentlemen. "It's almost 12noon. Mom and Dad might go looking out for me any time soon."_

_"Don't be such a kill-joy" Henry protests, "Why don't we play hide-and-seek? Remember when we spent Saturdays playin' in the Canyon? That was fun." then he adds, "we'll change the rules to make it more interesting." He winks at Isabel. "Instead of one person hiding and two seeking, Isabel and I will hide together, and you'll have to look for us, Daniel."_

_Heat creeps from beneath Isabel's coat collar and climbs up her neck and face to warm her cheekbones. Until recently, Henry treated her and Daniel the same—as slightly amusing, slightly annoying younger siblings. He never winked at her or made flirtatious suggestions. Their shared glances didn't startle her or make her pulse stutter, as they do now. She is confused by his increasing attention, by his dark, unwavering stare and the unfamiliar feelings it stirs inside her._

_The bell rings a second time. Isabel feigns annoyance, though she's really relieved. Slipping Henry's watch into her coat pocket to hold for him until he comes down from the tree, she sighs and said "No, I should probably get going..."_

_"So that's how your mother calls you in now? By ringing the bell?" One corner of Henry's mouth curves up. "I think I'll call you Bell from now on. It fits perfectly on you!"_

_"You're askin' for it now, Bell!" Daniel yells, reaching for more snow._

_Henry jumps from the tree and takes Isabel's arm, casting a dark glance over his shoulder at Daniel, and cuts him immediately. "Bell is my name for her, not yours."_

_A stunned look of apprehension flashes through Daniel's face, and I feel the pressure of Henry's fingers through Isabel's coat sleeve as her gaze darts between the two of them. "I need to go home," she murmurs, a sudden wariness humming beneath her skin._

_ Henry draws her a few steps farther away from Daniel and gives her arm an even harder squeeze._


	15. CH15: Encounter

**AUTHOR'S CORNER**

Whoa, whoa~ Things were pretty much intense during our previous chapter. I wonder what Henry's really up to. Mind you, folks, this ain't your usual _Ghost Story_. So, stay tuned for more details... as to why Henry has to haunt our dear Tansy through photographs. And how did she done that? I mean its not normal for a person to slip through a picture like that, right? So what you guys thought?

As I promise am giving you a good one— as I always said— one heck of a RIDE! But please pay attention to the details am about to present you, because those might lead you to our climatic scene. *WINKS* (^, ~)!

So gain, buckle up your seats and let me present you...

The next chapter... _ENJOY_!

* * *

_He frowns at her father across the field. "They'll just find another excuse to keep you away from me."_ _Daniel begins whistling, "Give it a rest, Romeo!" He jokes at Henry, but the latter doesn't seem to be amused. Isabelle looks over to see him packing snow into a ball. Daniel glances up, and their eyes meet. She's about to say something, but changes it as soon as she sees blood trickling down her friend's wrist from beneath his gloves. _

_"Oh goodness, Daniel! You're hand is bleeding!" she grimaced._ _Breaking away from Henry, she rushes to Daniel and stoops beside him in the snow. She takes the fist he cradles against his chest, asking, "How did you manage this?"_ _"__There was a sharp object in the snow. Maybe a shard of glass or whatever. It sliced right through my glove. Guess, it cut my hand."_ _Henry comes over, takes hold of Daniel's arm, and helps him stand. _

_"Come on. Let me see it." with a look of mock-concern he informs, "It wasn't that bad. Its far from stomach; nothing to worry about." He cast a disapproving look over Isabelle._ _"Oh, Henry! Will you please be sensitive at times?!" She remarked, shaking her head. She observes a __small gash lines the inside space between his forefinger and thumb; black blood oozing from it. But as she probes Daniel's warm flesh, I'm shocked to see the blood turn crimson. _

_"You should clean and disinfect this; it's deep," she tells him. "You might need a stitch or two."_ _Henry's eyes narrow; casts them a straight intimidating look, then shrugs. __"__Hurry home, then. Take care of Daniel and get your chores done, Bell." He stomps off, headed for his house._ _Henry's jealous. I can sense it—Belle, can sense it either. And so is my future grandfather. Yet she is in denial of this newly found emotion. Confused and upset, Isabel watches him go. _

_I want her to defy Henry for acting as if he owns her. She knows she should, and a part of her wants to, but if she obeys him, they'll be together again sooner, and Isabel wants that most of all. "Let's go," she tells Daniel quietly._ _Daniel looks down at his hands and lifts the glove to inspect the wound. "That and the fact that I don't want to leave you alone with him."_

_Utterly shocked, Isabelle implied "Did you purposely—" she cut her words short._ _"Come on, Isabelle. You're not stupid. I know you knew exactly what is going on to our friend." Daniel apprised her._ _Isabelle, on the other hand gave him a timid look. When she don't answer, Daniel replied, "Go home. I'll be alright."_

_Before he can move any further, Isabelle calls out his attention by saying, "I can take care of myself."_ _"__You know how moody Henry can get," she murmurs. "That's nothing new. But he's harmless. And as for him saving you—I don't want to see your friendship with Henry end, but if that's the only reason you're worried about—"_ _"Are you trying to convince yourself? or me?" said Daniel. And his words cuts through Isabelle like a dagger to her heart. My heart aswell. For I can practically feel her every emotions._ _When she opens her mouth to say something. __"__No, don't bother," Daniel says imploringly. "I know what you're gonna say anyway." He looks down then back at her, their eyes meet for a second, "I'll deal with whatever's bugging Henry. You just watch out for yourself. I don't like the way he looks at you."_

* * *

"Tansy? Why are you up here so early? Are you okay?"

A spear of pain slices through my neck from sleeping crouched in the chair. Sitting up, I reach to rub my sore muscles and realize my fingertips are numb.

Mom calls my name again as she pounds on the door.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just a sec." I open the drawer on the round table and slip Henry's journal and the crystal inside. The photo of Papa Dan under the mulberry tree slips from my lap when I stand. My heart pounds as I bend to pick it up. In it, Henry's timepiece no longer lies on the ground at my grandfather's feet. I reach inside my pajama pants pocket and pull out the watch, trying to convince myself that I imagined seeing it in the photo before. No other explanation makes sense. Not much of anything makes sense anymore. Quickly I place the photograph and the watch in the table drawer, too.

Mom's worried face greets me when I open the door. "You scared me to death. I went to your room and saw your bed hadn't been slept in. I called and called for you."

"I was processing film. I sat down to look at some of the photos and must have fallen asleep." Hearing the chatter of birds outside, I yawn and ask, "What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock."

"In the morning?"

"What did you think?" Mom frowns. "With that dark plastic over the windows I guess you can't tell night from day!"

* * *

No matter how hard I try to push it aside, last night's dream crowds my mind as I make batter and heat up the griddle; deep down, I don't really believe it was a dream, but I don't know what else to call it. Despite feeling so unsettled, I manage to put breakfast on the table. But three bites into my stack of pancakes, I notice the strawberries are dark gray.

Funny because the fruit doesn't look rotten, just colorless.

Stabbing a strawberry with my fork, I lift it up in front of Mom. "Do these look funny to you?"

She shoots me a baffled frown and shrugs. "No. They look as good as they taste."

"You don't think they're a little dark?"

"They're a pretty shade of red, if you ask me. I bet you could sell a picture of these pancakes to Aunt Jemima. It would make a beautiful ad." Mom picks a strawberry from the bowl and pops it into her mouth.

My stomach protests as I stare at the piece of fruit. I lower the fork to my plate and squint at the six or seven other gray strawberries topping my pancakes.

"What's the matter? Aren't you hungry?" Mom asks.

"I've sort of lost my appetite," I tell her. Along with my mind.

I stood up. But before I head to school, I glimpse a tiny white scar on his right hand in the space between his forefinger and thumb, the same place where Daniel cut his hand. I grasp his wrist gently and ask, "What happened here?" His gaze lifts slowly to mine, and I feel as if a rain shower of needles is cascading over my skin. Barely able to breathe, I ask Mom, "Has he always had this?"

"The scar? I don't know." She sips her coffee. "I'm not sure I've ever noticed it before. Why?"

I shrug. "I was just wondering." But deep inside, I perfectly knew how did he sustain that scar from years back...

* * *

_At Cedar Canyon High..._

* * *

Mom dropped me off a few minutes ago, and I noticed that every person in the school parking lot wore black, gray, and white. "Someone must have died," I said, looking back at Mom and thinking how pretty her skin looked against the emerald green of her blouse.

She frowned and asked, "What makes you think that?"

Panic knocked the air from my lungs when I realized the color in everyone's clothing had faded; everyone's except Mom's, that is. At least that's how it looked to me. Then Bethyl Ann tapped on the van window, and I could breathe again. She wore a hot pink T-shirt with the words Shakespeare Is My Homeboy on the front. A pale yellow barrette held back one side of her stringy brown hair.

We enter the classroom just in time to find the teacher hugging Alison and gushing, "I was just so proud of you when I heard you spent the summer volunteering at the hospital in Amarillo."

_Huh~ right, if you only knew her true colors._ I noted to myself thinking of Alison's photo-bombing image. I said photo-bombing because she isn't really my target for taking the shot. I was aiming at the artsy side-street mural where Alison and her thug-life boyfriend hitting cigarette in an alley nearby. If I remember correctly, I still have that photo along with the textbook in my backpack. I wonder how would the teacher respond once she finds out...

Beside me, Stinky coughs and the teacher glances up. Silence falls over the room, like someone unplugged a blaring television. At least twenty pairs of eyes aim our way. I quietly slip into my seat. Pushing my thoughts back from Alison. I don't want anyone's attention, especially at such a moment where I think deeply.

Scents of perfume and chalk, sweat and stale cigarette smoke mingle in the stuffy air of my first-period class. Bethyl Ann is bent over a notebook scribbling madly. She glances up. "Sorry. No time to talk. I had an epiphany for my story a second ago." She lowers her head and starts writing again. I look around, I thought to myself '_Why everyone's extra rowdy?'_ _'How can they act as if nothing's different? Can't they see that the world is washing out around them?' _My sense of detachment intensifies.

Fighting back my anxiety, I zip my backpack and get onto my feet as quick as possible, as the bell for the second period rings scandalously. I kept glancing across the room, hoping to find someone in color besides Bethyl Ann. Until I slam, face-first, into someone's broad back shoulders, when I head towards the door. And guess who it is... (O , O)

The bewildering — **Tate Hudson**. He truly needs an intro by now...

The books I've been carrying falls from my hands and smacks the floor between our feet. No wonder Tate is so charismatic that even books fall hard on him! AHAHAHA... (^^, ") ... _Nah_~ back to the scene.

"Whoa~!" Tate exclaims with a chuckle, turning to face me. He backs up and searches my eyes. "You in a hurry to get somewhere?"

I stare up into his face, so like Henry's. Look at me like he does, I think. Give me a reason to want to stay here, to hang onto my sanity. But I see a hesitance in Tate's eyes that I've never seen in Henry's. And I realize at once that, for some reason, Tate is as unsure of me as I am of him, as afraid to get too close.

_Whereas Henry looks at Belle with a glint of deep obsession in his eyes._

"_I'm sorry_," I say, and stoop at the same time he does to grab the book. All I can think about is the crystal, the envelope of photographs in my backpack, an empty stall in the girls' restroom three doors down. I am in a hurry, Tate. I'm in a hurry to get to Bell's world. _I need answers_.

I can almost feel Henry's fingertips digging into the flesh of my arm and see the intense blue shine of his eyes. Should I be running away from him instead? Is he causing everything here at school to fade? Trying to frighten me away from here? Trying to draw me back to him? If so, it's working. But if I go, what else will fade when I return? If I return. What if Henry won't let me?

I look up into Tate's eyes again. They're blue, not gray. Vivid and bright. A lifeline. I don't look away.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I guess he sensed something off about me.

"Nothing," I lie, but I can't stop trembling.

He lifts my book from the floor and hands it to me. We both stand. Tate's gaze flicks away, then back to me, wary. "You seem—I don't know. Tired or something."

When I don't respond, Tate laughs a little. "All those creaks in the Peterson house kept you up, huh?" When I still don't respond, he adds, "I heard that a lot of their old stuff is still stored out there."

"Yeah, they left some things," I answer, still trying to calm down.

He tilts his head. "You find anything _interesting_?"

Thinking of Henry's treasures, I shrug. "Just an old velvet chair and a table I put in my darkroom."

"You have your own darkroom?"

I nod. "In the turret."

"Sweet." He hesitates, then says, "I was wondering…you want to have lunch with me today?"

I DO want to go to lunch with Tate, almost more than anything. Almost. I'm more anxious to talk to Bethyl Ann, to tell her what's been happening to me ever since I moved here. Now that I've made the decision to confide in her, unloading the two-ton weight I've been carrying around on my own for so long feels too urgent to postpone, like I'll get crushed if I put it off even one more day. "I have something I have to do at lunch," I say.

Tate's eyes shift past me. "Okay. No big deal." I see him shutting down, shutting me out. He calls to a guy down the hall to "wait up!" then turns to me and say, "See ya later," and takes off like he can't get away from me fast enough! Like he always does. As if he's tryin to avoid contracting a _contagious_ _plague_ from me.

_Stupid_, Tansy! Stupid, stupid, _STUPID_! Why didn't I say I'd like to go to lunch with him another time? Thank him for asking? Something to let him know I wasn't just brushing him off? I watch Tate weave through the people in the hallway, wishing I had the nerve to catch up to him, to explain, to walk with him to our English class. But I can't bring myself to do it. So as kids rush by me in the hall, I stand alone, wanting more than anything to duck into the restroom, close myself in a stall, and take a trip into Henry's world on the crystal's luminous beam.

* * *

And here I am spending the Lunch Period with Bethyl Ann instead of having a romantic candlelit —oopps, its still lunch time, I know— lunch with Tate Hudson! SIGH, how pity. (Y_Y)

Anyway, she and I are sitting on the stadium bleachers eating our sack lunches while _Hamlet_ pants at our feet. The dog waits patiently for our crumbs to fall, its tail wagging freely back and forth. I drop a few on purpose while mentally rehearsing the best way to tell Bethyl Ann that I have the feverish reverie for a guy who's been dead for more than _seventy years_. And I dunno why I'm so _antsy _over him. She'll probably just spout off dialogue from a Shakespeare play that won't make any sense at all.

I pull a bag of chips from the sack and pass one to her. "_Um_...Bethyl Ann—"

"Call me _Stinky_. Everyone does."

"I'm not going to call you that. It's a horrible name!"

"You think Bethyl Ann is any better?"

She has a point. "Okay. Beth, then." So I tell her my story. _Everything_. From the day we first came, to when I find the Journal, Crystal and Pocket Watch. I told her _EVERYTHING_ that has driving me _nuts_ since last night.

She didn't say a word, though. I am expect her to be SHOCK AF and veer away. But there she just sits, lost in her own thoughts, looking blankly at me. When I get no reaction, I said "Well?"

She reply back, "Well?" as if she'd just repeat my word. Watching Bethyl Ann closely to gauge her reaction, I say, "It's like I go back into the past and I become another person who was my age a long time ago..." And there the reaction I've been trying so badly to pull out from her!

She stares at me with her mouth open, and just when I begin to think she's gone mute, she says, "Oh. My. Freakin'. Gosh. Henry Peterson is possessing you?"

"Not exactly. Henry's not the person I become." For the next few minutes, I've explained to her the details of how I got there, who I am with, the photograph, the scenery. Everything that has engulfed me in that particular picture, while she nibbles and gasps...

I also explain about the Nightingale's midnight serenade, How the past world is becoming more vibrant while this world is dimming. The longer I spent time there... and how I feel as if I'm living through Henry's _girlfriend_ while I'm there.

I also told her my intentions to go back to the scene should the _it_ occur once again.

But then, why do I feel terrified? Idk why am so convinced that next visit would end differently than my prior ones? Wouldn't I come back just as easily as before? I'm not sure what triggers. "Holy schmoley." Bethyl Ann sits back against my headboard, blinking rapidly. "Does mental illness run in your family?" Her words drain the blood from my face. She must notice my reaction, because she nudges me and says, "Oh, geez. No offense. But if you want me to help you figure this out—"

"No, you're right." I try to swallow the lump that lodges in my throat like a pebble. "I'm losing it. I think I might be a _schizophrenic_." My voice cracks the word in two.

"Maybe," Bethyl Ann says in a matter-of-fact way, as if schizophrenia is no more serious than the common cold. "But we should rule out all the other possibilities before we lock you away." She grins.

Bethyl Ann's expression changes to one of alarm, like she's afraid I'm going to spaz out. "Oh, darn." She scrambles to the edge of the bed. "I didn't know how upset you were—I'll get your mother."

"No!" I catch her arm. "I'm afraid she'll take me to some doctor who'll stuff pills down my throat until I turn into a zombie." Sniffing, I let go of her arm.

She studies my face, scoots back, and murmurs, "I understand. I didn't mean to make light of things. I just want to look at all the puzzle pieces. How else are we going to see this clearly and understand what's going on?"

Something akin to hope seeps into my heart. "By puzzle pieces, you mean rational explanations, right?"

She beams. "Exactly."

"In my case, there aren't any."

"You think I'm making this up for attention or something?" an aggravating tone consumes my voice.

"No. I I totally believe you." Bethyl Ann nudges me, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She plants a fist on her hip, making her bony elbow stick out like the point on a triangle. "Do I look like a close-minded naysayer to you? I do believe you. You might have a ghost or any monstrous creature on your hands. I've watched Ghost Whisperer. I've seen Psychic Detectives."

"So what?" I say, refusing to look at her straight on.

"So I know what I'm talking about. Things happen all the time that we can't explain logically now but that someone will figure out later. This might be one of those."

"Go on," I say cautiously, afraid to hope that she's not just trying to keep me from unraveling at her feet like a spool of thread.

"Throughout history smart-alecky know-it-alls have pooh-poohed things they didn't understand. In the scheme of things, it wasn't that long ago that the pope threatened Galileo with torture if he didn't say that he'd been wrong about the earth circling the sun." She sniffs and lifts her chin. "I am not a smart-alecky pooh-pooher."

Hope spreads through me like sunshine after a rainstorm. Leave it to Bethyl Ann to find a way to combine science with the supernatural and sort of make sense doing it. I'm so relieved by her attitude that I could hug her. It feels good to have the secret out, to be able to talk about it with someone who doesn't automatically think I'm whacked out.

Facing Bethyl Ann, I smile so wide my cheeks hurt. "You don't know how awful it's been, having to keep this to myself. I'm so afraid I'm going crazy. That's the most likely explanation, isn't it? I mean, the nightingale…I did some research and you were right. They aren't in North America."

She looks smug. "You doubted _moi_? The smartest almost-fourteen-year-old in the county?"

Sometimes I do forget about the fact that she is a 14 year old genius who made it to the Senior level in Cedar Canyon High.

"I'm so grateful to have you." I sincerely do. These couple of days I feel so restless and burn out because of the so many things that going on with my life. But now, it all disintegrates, thanks to Beth—and her, err, _other-worldly knowledge_ about ghost stuff?— I felt unfettered.

"So, change topic. How about Tate Hudson? What's he like? Could you blow his image?"

"Tate Hudson!" Bethyl Ann's voice booms like a sports announcer. "Football god! Worshipped by the masses!" She scratches Hamlet's head then, in a scoffing tone, says, "He used to be really full of himself. Him and his _Tate-a-licious_ blue eyes."

Smiling at her description of Tate's eyes, I say, "Used to be? What changed? His mom leaving?"

"I'm not supposed to gossip, but if you already know—"

"I heard the pharmacist and Mary Jane talking about it."

Words rush out of Bethyl Ann as fast as air from a punctured balloon. "It was right before school let out last year," she says eagerly. "That's when Tate got all quiet and moody. His older brother, _Evan_, was away at college and he didn't come home for the summer, so Tate was left alone with his dad."

"Why'd his mother move out of town?"

"Who knows? Mom says Mrs. Hudson has city blood."

"I can relate," I murmur.

"Tate's dad is a farmer. I can't see him living in a city." I toss Hamlet a crust of bread. "I don't think Tate likes me."

"At first, I thought he's a dumbass. You know, hating a person's gut he's yet to know?

"_Yond_ Tate has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much; such men are dangerous, Tansy Piper."

For some reason, her dramatics make me laugh despite my misery. "Speaking of…there's another reason I feel weird about Tate. He was friendly; then he wasn't; now he's friendly again. And he blames that on a bad mood? Sometimes I think he's being nice to me for a reason."

"When this happened?" she inquire.

"We'd bumped to each other at the bridge yesterday."

"Duh. He's a guy. Aren't they always nice to girls for a reason? They want to—you know." Wiggling her brows

"Besides that," I say.

"Maybe _he_ just likes you." She notified. "At least his taste is getting better. If that's the case, you're a big improvement over the prior object of his affection."

"Who?"

"_Shanna_"

(O_O) OH! So that's why Shanna's been _salty_ around me? Too much revelation in such a two day span of week. I'm not sure I can handle this.

I toss Hamlet a crust of bread. "I don't think Tate likes me."

"So, Tate and Shanna, huh?" That's not something I wanted to hear. Although am not sure yet, I think I already have a thing for Tate after our brief encounter at the Salad Bar. That only escalates after another encounter at the bridge; where we finally became friends. "Why did they break up?"

"He probably got sick of her being so mean. Shanna cheated on Tate every time he turned his back."

Recalling how _dreadful_ it felt to be betrayed by Hailey, I sympathize with Tate, even if he was stupid enough to _hook up_ with someone like Shanna! The thought simply infuriates me. I don't know why...

"Rumor has it she even had _s-e-x_ with his fellow football member." Ignoring any further details regarding Tate and Shanna's past —to be honest, I have nothing to do with them. For some reason, I got reminded of Colin and Hailey. UGH! I think I lost my appetite already— I quickly move to another topic before she could break any information about their past _fling_.

"So I guess _Alison_ is no different, since they're always together?" I concluded.

"No, Alison's okay." Bethyl Ann's gaze shifts away as she claps the crumbs away from her hands.

Curious over her abrupt silence, I say, "I saw her doing Cigarettes with a thug on an obscure side of the street." I didn't mention about the photographed I accidentally took.

She looks up. "Alison?"

"Yeah. Like what is she doing with a good-for-nothing guy? I mean, she looks too-good-to-be-true to me—"

"Don't think Alison and Shanna are the same, 'cause they're not!" Bethyl Ann says defensively. "Alison can be _trust-worthy._"

"_OH_~! Okay. I'm sorry." I scowl at her. "I don't get why you're so defensive of her, but I won't say anything negative about perfect Alison again."

She was about to say something, but her eyes suddenly widened when she jerked her head left. "

"Great. Look who's coming," she mumbles. "The ever-brooding Cassius himself!"

"_Cassius_ who?" I turn to my right and see Tate approaching the bleachers where Beth and I were seated.

* * *

Standing up, She waves at him, and calls, "Welcome, Cassius!"

"Hey, Stinky." He pauses in front of us. "My name's Tate, by the way."

I sigh heavily. "And hers is Beth."

Looking sheepish, Tate shoves his hands into his pockets. "I thought it was Bethyl Ann."

"Then why did you call her Stinky?"

Bethyl Ann grins. "Yes, do tell, Cassius. Why did you?"

"Habit, I guess. I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"No worries, Cassius. And neither do I. Mean anything by calling you Cassius, that is." Bethyl Ann looks smug.

Tate glances at me, then down at his shoes. He gently kicks the edge of the bleachers, and when he looks up again, our eyes meet and hold.

Bethyl Ann claps her hands together. "Well…that's my cue to exit stage right."

Anxiety strikes through me at the thought of her leaving me alone with Tate. I feel bad about turning down his lunch invitation. If Bethyl Ann leaves, I'll feel obligated to explain myself. "Uh..._you_ don't have to go," I blurt out.

"_Au contraire_, Violetta Piper," she says. "A cue is a cue."

Tate's brow furrows as he watches her and Hamlet walk away. At the center of the tennis court, Bethyl Ann stops and tosses her empty plastic soda bottle for the dog to retrieve. I give her my full attention so I won't have to look at Tate.

After a dozen silent seconds, I say, "I guess it's my turn to apologize to you now. I didn't mean to blow you off about lunch. I needed to talk to Bethyl Ann about something important, that's all."

"_No biggie_." Tate reaches down to the ground, picks up a pebble, rears back his arm, and tosses it over the top of the bleachers. "I came over here to ask if maybe you wanted to go do something after school. We could go get a coffee or something."

"Cedar Canyon has a Starbucks?" I tease. "I must've missed it."

He laughs. "No Starbucks, but there is a place downtown. Just a couple of walks away from schoo—"

"Ah. The Dairy Queen!"

"Funny." Smirking at me, he continues, "You need someone to show you around. Just because this isn't San Francisco doesn't mean we don't have some cool places out here,"

"I didn't mean to make fun of Cedar Canyon."

"Sure you did." He grins. "Well? Do you want to go?"

* * *

Moments had passed, and I found myself walking with Tate, side by side. It feels very much like yesterday when we both walked over the bridge together and shared a little chat about our lives and why we moved here. I stare at him for a sneak period. He looks so much like Henry! My heart spikes when I look into his eyes. Still, I'm not completely comfortable with Tate's sudden friendliness; if he has ulterior motives, I should probably find out what they are before I start liking him any more than I already do! _OH, NO..._! (O/O)

Tate glances across at me. "So you and Stink—" My glare cuts his sentence short.

"You and Bethyl Ann are good friends, huh?"

Feeling defensive, I snap, "Is that a problem?"

"I was just asking." He smiles. **OH-MY-GAWD!** I almost got killed in that instant with _his_ killer smile! _HOW RUDE_! Who gave him the permission to shoot me with his _cute-sy_ dimples, huh? _WHOOO!_! Mind you, if we were not walking, this sidewalk could be my funeral!

But once again, the thought about Tate and Shanna's fleeting romance, registered on my mind. And an unfamiliar sensation took over my emotion...

"What?" I cross my arms; irritatingly, aware that I'm overreacting for some unknown reason. Even though it's not Tate's fault that I might be psychologically _disturbed_, I can't keep from lashing out at him. And I really don't know _why_.

"I didn't say anything," Tate mutters.

"Beth is the only person who's been nice to me since I've been here."

His brows lift.

"Go ahead. Say what you're thinking."

"It's nothing."

"Just say it then." I challenged him.

He shrugs. "Well, some _people_ think you're kind of hard to approach."

The statement hits me like a splash of cold water in the face. "Some people like who? Straight-A Alison Summers and Beer-for-Breakfast Shanna? Or possibly Rooster Boy?"

He burst into laughter.

His words sputter out of him. "You pretty much summed up Alison and Shanna. Who's _Rooster Boy, _btw?"

"The _crackhead_ comedian who sits next to you in homeroom?"

"Jon Jenks?" He laughs again. "Why'd you call him that?"

"He struts around like a rooster, but he's really just a scrawny chicken." Tate snickers and drives while I stare out the window and fume. "I guess you think it's easy moving to a new school. What was I supposed to do? Show up on the first day and introduce myself to everyone? Shake their hands?"

"I'm sorry. Don't be mad." He chokes back another laugh.

"Maybe I have been hard to get close to, but that didn't stop Beth."

Tate sobers and says, "I don't have anything against Bethyl Ann, but you've got to admit that she's weird."

"She's only thirteen. Everyone needs to give her a break. Have you ever thought how it would feel to be that age again and so smart that they stuck you in high school with a bunch of jerks who treat you like crap?"

He squints straight ahead out the window, and after a few seconds says, "I guess you're right. I'm sorry."

"Quit saying _that_, will you?!" I think about all of Hailey's pathetic attempts to apologize in frantic phone calls and I got agitated.

Apparently, Tate's no different than her or the other assholes in this town. "I don't feel like going anymore," I tell Tate. "I'll just go back. The lunch period is almost over anyway."

"Tansy—" He curses quietly.

"Look, if you don't wanna go back yet, don't tag along okay?"

Tate shakes his head and exhales a noisy breath. "O-okay, Okay!" "Aryt. I'll... I'll walk with you."

And we quietly head back to school.

* * *

_Later that afternoon..._

* * *

I've spoiled it! I've spoiled my _almost_ date with Tate! I know I've lost my cool in front of him. HOW CAN I BE SUCH A FOOL! (O^O )

**_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! _**_Have you lost your mind, Tansy?!_

Why so stupid?! **AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!** You've ruin your chances with Tate. And its twice this day!

Why, myself, _WHY_?! I whined to myself. I skipped once again the afternoon classes, trying to avoid Tate. After I've _thrown fits_ at him, I didn't know if I still have the face to show up. JUST WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME! Can somebody say? I'm begging you! (T_T)

I went ahead to the girl's comfort room to cool my nerves down, and splash some waters. After that incident, I wonder if Tate would still dare to ask me out. "Just when things are starting to get better between us. Here I am blowing everything up." I complain to myself.

The restroom smells like ammonia. I gulp in huge breaths of the pungent scent. I glance at the CR's mirror, and took a splash of tap water. Trying to swoop the day away at the lavatory. A bell sounds, the abrupt noise startling me like a thunderclap. I avert my attention from the mirror for only a second and, when I look back, my own green eyes stare back at me, red-rimmed and swollen. Then, in just a split second, I see two images merging, _slowly_ obtruding the other —my image, my original self.

I was motionless. M-my eyes…they're brown now, not usual hazel-green. And they're larger, too; lashes became thicker. I recognize at once, to whom the reflection belongs to, "Belle?" I whisper. But how could it possibly be? I blink at my strange reflection in the mirror —sure it wasn't my face I am looking at right now. It is Belle's. Suddenly, fear courses through me?

_'H-how come_?!' I shout in disbelief. Then, a second bell sounds. And everything, —my own reflection— comes back to normal. The mirror showing my true form. My unfiltered reflection stares back at me from the mirror.

I check out the time from my smartphone, and get stunned upon realizing that I've already spent an entire forty-five-minute class period in here. And then, I heard a sound of laughter on the other side of the door, I quickly grab my backpack and dart into a stall, unwilling to let anyone see me panting. I sit on the toilet tank, placing my feet on the lid.

A gust of noise blows into the restroom, voices I don't recognize bitching about a homework assignment. A stall door slams. Water rushes from a tap. Another gust. A toilet flushes. More voices mix in with the others. One with a husky, haughty edge that's familiar, probably from all the cigarettes she smokes while drinking her _morning beer_:

"For Pete's sake! What is his problem?" Shanna growl as the door thuds shut. Then the smell of menthol and sulfur. I scoot quietly backward until I'm pressed against the wall.

"I feel bad for him." Alison sighs. "Maybe he's still messed up over his mom."

"He was always pissed at her. You know that."

"Who isn't pissed at their mother sometimes? Most mothers don't leave."

"Now that you mention it, he did quit calling me about the time she left."

Cigarette smoke filters through the crack between the stall door and the divider. I hold my breath and try not to cough as I peek out.

"You're going to get caught again and sent to detention." This voice has a soft lilt, full of care and concern. Straight-A Alison.

"Big freaking deal," Shanna says. "You won't snitch on me, will you?"

"Have I ever?"

"You want one?"

"Not here."

"You are so middle school sometimes. You worry too much. As if half the school staff doesn't sneak smokes in the teachers' lounge." More water in the sink. "He quit the team. I heard Coach Dryer is furious. Tate won't even tell him why."

Tate quit football? So that's why he has time to spare with me (O_O). Not even once, it occurred to me that he must be _missing_ practice.

Alison and Shanna lean against the sinks. A smoldering cigarette lies next to the faucet. Shanna picks it up. "I am so into him, but he doesn't even care anymore. God, how could I be so stupid? I broke up with Derek for him. This summer Tate couldn't stay away from me, but ever since school started, I haven't heard one word from him."

"Shhh." Alison jerks her head toward the door. "Someone might come in."

"I don't care. Everybody knows Tate dumped me..."

_**WHAT~?!**_ (o , O) Tate dumped Shanna?! HAHAHAHA I don't feel sorry for her! **HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!**

"...They all think he's acting weird, too." she continues on. "He hardly hangout with anyone. Until this noon, during lunch period, someone saw him walking with that _weird California chick_!"

_Hey, is she referring to me? ( _ )_

She pause in puffing cigarette. And got so distracted by her own image as she applies even more mascara to her already clotted lashes. "...I heard she's one of those West Coast whack jobs who only eat green stuff." "So, why would Tate give her the time of day?"

_Because I'm far better than you? I remarked to myself, ofcourse._ But the words wanted to yell out.

But before I could come out and ready to dug my fingernails to Shanna's _glossy-__Tresemme-treated-hair_, the door opens and a news came from a student informing Alison...

"Alison! Hurry up, to the Bulletin Board?!" said the informant, I didn't get to see her face though. "Someone's posted your picture taking cig with Doyle in the side-street!"

"WHAT~!" I heard Alison screamed out loud.

Before I could come out from the stall and rush to the Bulletin Board with them; I heard a faint call from behind me.

It was Henry...

"Belle,..."

"Henry?" But how—

The scene slinks slowly from the restroom to a place which I recognize at once as the bridge at the Great Canyon... where Henry awaits me.

I look around. My clothes are no longer mine; but a spaghetti strapped dress. Purplish white in color with a violet ribbon at the back serving as a belt.

Behind me there was a guy standing. I squint because he's standing against the 1'oclock sun.

Yet I know his voice pretty well. _It's him_. My heart is pounding when I heard him call...

_"Bell…you're here!" He crosses to the entrance of the bridge to meet me, hugs me quickly, then steps back and takes both my hands in his._


	16. Ch16: Photographs

**AUTHOR'S CORNER**

WARNING: **The following scenes you are about to read is not suitable for minors**. It depicts sensual themes, foul language and violent topic. So if you are below 18 years of age, better skip this one. Or read at your own risk. I'm not encouraging anyone to graphic sensual content. So please leave if you are under 18 years old.

* * *

"Stay with me longer, Bell. I'm not ready for you to go."

I'm with Henry again as Isabelle, climbing the sloping trail that leads out of the canyon bordering his father's property. Sunshine warms the winter day. We've spent most of it outside, walking, picnicking, and sitting beneath bare-branched trees while Henry played his violin.

"I can't stay." Avoiding his gaze, Isabel remains focused on the path ahead and the scenery around us. With each step she takes, more and more colors appear to me like magic. It's as if she pushes a giant paintbrush in front of us, streaking ribbons of rust, dusty pink, and milk chocolate across the canyon wall. Throughout the day, sounds have intensified: wind-rattled tree limbs, the honks of geese flying high overhead, an occasional rustle of an animal in the brush.

"You can't stay, or you won't?" Henry asks.

"Do you realize the trouble I'll be in if Mama and Papa hear that I wasn't in school today? I shouldn't have done this."

"Really?" I can hear the sarcasm in his voice, "or was it _somebody_ you truly worry about?"

"What are you _implying_?"

"Daniel." He spits the name. "He's the real problem, _isn't he_?" a jab of fierce anger slashes through Henry's cheekbones.

Alarmed by how easily his lighthearted mood can turn to sour, Isabel peers down at the trail again. Before my eyes, with each touch of her boots gray winter grass becomes amber and brown. "Daniel a problem? What are you talking about?"

"You're always so worried about him. Poor Daniel. What about Daniel?" he mimics in a mocking tone. "I don't want him around all the time. Not anymore. He's _jealous_ of us."

Isabel's laugh is short and baffled. "Daniel's not jealous. He's our friend. He worships you and, lately, you treat him _terribly_."

"Don't be naive." Scowling, Henry stops walking and sets the basket and his violin case on the trail beside him. "Daniel doesn't like it one bit that you and I are becoming closer." He grasps Isabel's arms, and I feel his fingertips press into her flesh. "I won't let him come between us, Bell. Do you understand?"

She twists free of his hold and touches his cheek. "Daniel isn't jealous. He doesn't feel about me the way—" Isabel lowers her eyes.

"Say it." Henry lifts her chin with his fingertips, forcing her to look at him—forcing me to.

She glances at him, and Henry's grinning mischievously assures me he knows that, he's aware of the power he has over her—or is it me that he's smiling at in that self-satisfied way? _Me_ who he's happy to be maneuvering like a character in a video game?

She finds Henry's company quite satisfying. Yet she is afraid of the unfamiliar emotions strumming inside her, afraid if she _gives in_ to them something will go wrong and she'll not only lose Henry's love, she'll ruin their friendship, too. Still, she smiles and tells him, "Daniel doesn't _feel_ about me the way you and I feel about _each other_." She whispers, and I feel the flutter of her pulse as if it's my own as Henry's lips curve into a smile. She probes her mind for a safer topic, as unnerved by the intense way he searches her eyes as I am. "You shouldn't skip school, either," Isabel says weakly.

"Don't change the subject, Belle."

She too, smiles lovingly, and tells him, "I'm not afraid of _anything_. You're the one who's avoiding questions."

Henry's grin slides off his face. He lowers his hand. "You know why I don't like to go to school. I might as well be a leper there."

They haven't given you a chance. Maybe if I talked to them—"

"I've lived here my entire life, Bell. They've had plenty of opportunities. The problem is, they're afraid of me."

"Henry…"

"They are." He shrugs. "They can rest easy. I've decided to quit school."

"It doesn't matter." Pulling away, he continues on up the trail. Then, Henry stares at her very intently. And I can feel the warmth of Isabel's blush. Henry went up the trail and Isabelle follows. Henry's mask of indifference slips, and I see the anguish in his eyes. "I'm so lonely when we're apart. I miss you," he says, his voice a quiet rasp.

"I know," she whispers. "I feel the same way."

Crouching again, Henry takes hold of the railing and hops down onto the bridge's wooden planks. He crosses to her. "Do you?" he asks, reaching for her arm.

"You know I do."

Henry pulls her closer into his arms. He lifts one hand to her cheek, presses his other hand against the small of her back. I smell the starch in his shirt, feel his suspenders, as Isabel's palms skim across his shoulders. Henry's lips brush hers…once…twice. So soft, so warm, his kiss. His lips taste like the fresh mint Miss Ivy put in their picnic tea. Isabel wants the kiss to go on and on and on…_so do I_.

But then Henry's head shifts; his mouth presses harder; he pushes against her spine too tightly. Apprehension pricks my desire like a needle, and Isabel pulls her head back quickly, a startled look in her eyes.

At the top of the trail, Isabel and Henry pause to catch their breath. Isabelle runs teasingly, she glances back hoping Henry would play with her silly trick of cat-and-mouse.

…The sun's rays weaken with twilight's approach. Henry chases Isabel up the trail. Near the top, she squeals, dodging his outstretched arms. Too late. He catches her wrist, tugs, and we tumble to the snow-dusted ground. During our playful scuffle, she manages to scoop up a handful of snow in her glove and toss it at him. Laughing and red-faced, he rolls her onto her back and pins her wrists at either side of her head.

"Let me up! It's freezing down here!" Isabel cries.

A glint lights Henry's eyes. "You look beautiful laying on snow-laden ground, Belle.'" he examines her face. From her big brown eyes, down to her chest.

"I'm not beautiful."

"You're all the more so because you don't know it." He caresses her cheek. "You're all that matters to me, Bell. You're all I have. Without you, I'm alone. I'm nothing."

"Let me up, please?"

"Say, Uncle."

"I won't!"

"I guess you'll just have to freeze then."

She glares up at him, says, "Uncle," so quietly I barely hear the word.

"Louder." He tightens his grip. "Say it like you mean it."

"Uncle!" she yells. "I'm turning into an icicle!"

"Then I'll just have to melt you." He kisses her slowly until she stops struggling and kisses him back. Then he lifts his head and looks at her in a way that turns me inside out. She pins her hard on the ground and slowly kissing her from the lips down her neck.

"Ughh... _H-Henry_" Belle moans. As Henry caresses her back toward her bare _breasts_. His fingers slip beneath the strap of her spaghetti dress. Slowly peeling it off. Even as protests arise she gasps as his teeth close sharp on her earlobe, nipping, then soothing with a melting lick.

Finally, when he undo her dress, revealing her intimate physique, regret and strange reverberating fear strikes at her. But even so, she's not surprised to find her mouth already pressing against him, as Henry takes-off his suspenders, removing his belt, and unzip his pants.

"He-Henry..." Before she could even speak, Henry removes her panty-hose. Revealing her most intimate body part. She intently at Henry, casting him a longing look. She watches as he lay down his pants to his knees. Revealing his own underwear. But her heart almost explode with nervousness —or perhaps excitement—, when Henry finally took it off. Revealing a palm length genital. Which Belle's isn't used to seeing before.

Her heart pounds. So am I.

Henry went back to where his lips once kissing. Her wide open chest. Fresh and pure like Betty Crocker and Pillsbury Cake Mix combined together. He pins both her hand on top of her head. Which motioned her cup-A sized bust upward. I watch as Henry begins ravishing her with hot, wet kisses.

Isabelle squeak so loud; thank goodness no one else is around but the two of them. Sensing her pleasurable squirm, Henry took a handkie at the side pocket of his shirt, before removing it completely. Then he began tucking the piece of cloth to Isabelle's mouth; while parting both her legs. But Isabelle has no complain. In fact, she enjoys it.

She knows she can trust Henry. And whatever he's doing, is just a simple display of affection.

He cast a heavy-yearning look at her pallid face, as if he's trying to convey a signal if he can persist or not. But he spare no time, the moment Isabelle gave him a quick assuring nod. And the rampage begin.

He pounces his manhood into Isabelle's _cave_. And Isabelle gives in to a pleasurable squeal. Citing, "AaaAAAHHHHHhhhhhHHH! Hen...H-...H-en..._Henr_-!" she can't finish her words for the handkerchief covers her mouth, haltering her cry from getting too obvious to any lurking observer. Henry tosses his thing _back and forth_ into the un-explored cave between Isabelle's legs. And gives out a loud moan, matching his girlfriend's cry.

Tears trickle down Isabelle's cheeks and both her eyes shut. Yet I can tell she's giving in to the sensual pleasure Henry is quite adept to offer. I can't feel everything from Isabelle's body. But I can comprehend her emotions. Its as if she both love and hate it at the same time. Love the way Henry stroke his thing in and out, giving her a sense of pleasurable delight, yet hating it... for it causing her down part to ache so much.

Henry doesn't seem to notice the hurt and pleasure in Isabelle's expression, for he's lost to his own wild thoughts and his eyes filled with lust. And he doesn't seem to stop. He pounces hard and wild. Back and forth to Isabelle's _stream_. And spurting out faster and faster, blood begin to surge from Isabelle's inward with each thrust he make but he hardly notice. Much to Isabelle's distress.

Isabelle cries out something, but she can't make a word of it. For the handkerchief still cover her rosey lips. But I do understand what she might try to imply...

"H-h-henry, p-p-p-please...s-sto...stop! It hurts!" Isabelle moans in pain and pleasure at the same time.

But Henry doesn't get the signal at all. He just keep pressing into her. Enjoying every stroke he thinks she enjoyed.

Every touch of Henry's skin seems to invigorate Isabelle from deep within. A sense of vitality rallies through me and Isabelle's body. And as she lay down helplessly, the corner of her eyes wandered. Giving me a slight view of the surroundings; from there I notice the sky is no longer gray but blue with fluffy white clouds forming on every side, and the Canyon itself is in full color.

Henry made a hard long deep stroke that makes Isabelle's spine form an arch. Drool escapes from her delicate lips which Henry gladly licks. I watch as she roars out in pain and pleasure. Though we both know, she didn't want to stop him either...

* * *

_At the present..._

* * *

I wake up finding myself sitting at the velvet chair in the turret. I blink my eyes, half-squinting... '_How do I get here?_' I thought to myself. Moments ago, if I remember correctly, I was in the Ladies' room, shirking on an empty stall. As Shanna and Alison made their way inside, gossiping about me and Tate; and then... (O ,O ) **OH GAWD**!

An announcer came and informs Alison about her _infamous_ photograph! But how could it be? It was on my backpack the whole time! I knew it! But how on earth could it... Then realization dawns on me. I bump into Tate Hudson's back and everything I was holding fell. And I remember I took out a book before that, which was meant for our English subject right after the lunch. And I perfectly remember I slid Alison's alleged photograph in it.

It probably fell off, and both Tate and I didn't notice because we're so busy discussing about lunch. THAT'S SO STUPID OF YOU, TANSY! (V_V)! I refute myself.

I stand up, eager to make amend before things would go awful to both parties involved. But panic gushes on me like a thunderbolt as soon as I look outside the window.

The sun is no longer visible. Night has fallen. And by the sight of it, it seems that the clock will soon strike past midnight!

_BUT HOW COULD THIS BE?! What was happening in this planet?_ (O. O) I was shock to the core. I knew I could've fallen asleep inside that _dang_ stall, but to jerk awake in our turret, at this hour? Am I losing _it_? Could it be a symptom of any mental disorder or stuff? And what's this?!

I realize that I've been holding a picture in my right arm together with the crystal on the left.

_Since when did I hold it?_ (O .o) again I ask myself.

I remember taking the crystal with me, but the picture am holding right now is quite different from the ones I brought to school. It was the photograph of Papa Dan at the mulberry tree, I took that in the hopes that I might find answers should I step through that image again. But the picture am holding isn't something I knew I captured with my camera lens. It was a black and white image of the Grand Canyon bridge, long before the reconstruction, back when it was just a simple man-made wooden bridge.

And instead of the original scenery I was hoping to get reanimated, it was to a different place where my subconsciousness were manifested.

I can feel the blood rushing through my face as I rethink of that scene where Henry and Belle went from fervent kissing to—

_No, Tansy. Stop!_ I cut my thoughts from their very _intimate_ scene. Although I have no recollection or actual feeling of what Isabelle might be experiencing at the moment, I understand that they're having such a sensual moment. And Isabelle can't help but welcome it despite of her initial reluctance and intolerable pain.

_The thought makes me shiver._

Colin and I had dated but never did we share such intimate scene together. We satisfied ourselves through music stores and movie night out. But never did we engage in such thing. Perhaps that's why he went out with Hailey. He might have _that thought_ in mind but couldn't execute it because he knows I might dodge him off. That's why he waited until my shadow no longer present in our community nor school, so he could _proceed_ with Hailey. And their night at the Flirty Blue concert is his first move.

He never invited me in such event. I knew eversince we began dating that he loves their music. Yet he never invited me there once. Now I know that he's reserving it for such a special _moment_.

"**HUH! WHO CARES!**" I blurted out, all of a sudden. That's the reason why am starting to despise men in general. I hate it when they think dirty and everything. Can't they just have a sense of relationship with pure intent and without getting triggered by malice?! _**AAARRRGGGHH!**_ I wonder why men are created in the first place. They are nothing but _DOUCHEBAG_! Girls are better with or without their presence, so _WHYYYYYYY_ on earth are they here?!

I slammed the photo and the crystal to the velvet chair out of contempt.

Lucky for Belle, Henry loves her so much to the moon and back. No doubt with that! Unlike those dick like Colin and tramp Hailey.

I HATE THEM! GOSH! How I wish they would just disappear from this planet. _POOF_! Just like that! They're polluting our dear mother planet with their corrupt asses! _**GGGGRRRRRRRRRR**_! Just thinking about their disrespectful existence makes me wanna puke.

So I decided to come out of the turret and head down towards the kitchen and get something to eat.

* * *

Mom is sitting at a table opposite Papa Dan; hands are busy typing her book's next chapter on the laptop. To her right is the iPad tablet where she digs in for research material. Papa Dan is half eating his porridge. He hold a fork to his left hand playing around it. As if twirling an invisible noodle to the air. I watch them from the corner of my eye as I get cold pitcher from the fridge.

"_Tansy_?" Mom calls out. Her eyes and hands didn't move from the laptop. "I didn't heard you come home."

_Trust me mom, I don't know either_.

"I was checking your room, but you weren't there. The turret is lock, so I assume you spent the evening there. Why you didn't come down for dinner earlier?"

She floods me with questions, as expected. "I'm not hungry yet." I lied. "Just now. Do we have leftovers?"

"Get those fresh apples from the fridge. I forgot to cook any. I was hoping you could pre-order something once you get home. But then I didn't see you arrive so~"

I gave her a smirk.

Mom never cook. She can only make porridge and that's it. We rely on the power of fast-food delivery. But eversince we came here in Texas, it was my job to act as chef.

But I my mind is still wondering how the heck did I get hear from school?

Its as if I got teleport and the evidence were wash out from my memories. I don't know.

"You're friend came here earlier. Looking for you."

"Bethyl Ann? The Local Librarian's daughter?" I inquire.

"Is that her name? Oh, how sad for her." She quit tapping from the keyboard and turn to face me. "There's also another one. You know the _cute guy_ you'd been drooling over at the Longhorn Cafe?"

I spit out the water at the mention of _cute guy_. "—who, Tate? You mean, TATE? The TATE HUDSON?!"

"Why are you flushing? she teases, "Now you know his name? _Nice_." she winks flirtatiously.

"_Mom_~" I scolded, "I'm not flushing okay?" "...and I didn't _drool_ over him, _EXCUSE ME_!"

But I was shocked. What would Tate came to our house for? (O_O)

* * *

**AUTHOR'S CORNER**

I know, you guys might've felt nauseous from reading the last chapter. Coz it took a LOT loooooooong! So here, I tried to come up with a shorter one. So you won't get tired reading.

Hopefully you enjoy reading this one, save from the youngster ofcourse! Coz this chapter, especially the opening part is quite... _sensitive_. I hope you guys don't get disturbed by it.

I promise you that things would get interesting as the chapters go by... So please, please, please stay tuned for more.

And also, I would appreciate if you could review this story should there be any suggestion you wanted to share. (^_^)

Thanks guys! See _ya_ next time!


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